#my vanity has withered

[sev-wildfang]

First bathroom selfies of the new year --

[moodywyrm]

HI I'M NEW IDK HOW TO USE THIS BUT I HAVE SUM TO SAY ABOUT ABBY-

imagine she asks you for a massage after gym and you're all excited n stuff and u sit on her ass bcs she's laying on her stomach while u take care of her back and massage it gently and she can feel the heat from u like as u sit and djejskdjd😩

we're modifying this a little bit because I have farmer! abby on the brain. so instead of the gym, she asks you for a massage after a long day on the farm. just some notes: reader is described as wearing lipstick, owning self care items like body oil, has a vanity, and referred to with traditionally fem words like wife, girl, etc. but, genitalia for the reader is not mentioned. more farm abby for my wife @pinknightsinmymind

Planting seasons starts soon, which means Abby has been plowing the field all day and she's fucking exhausted. Every inch of her body is sore, and she's all but soaked through her wife pleaser, her flannel long forgotten on the porch railing. She's bone tired and, to make things worse, she hasn't seen you in two whole hours.

You've been inside making dinner, cooking up her favorite stew so she had a nice hot meal ready once she was done plowing. It's incredibly sweet, really, and she couldn't ask for a better wife, but she feels like she's gonna wither away if she doesn't see you right now.

By the time she slumps up the farmhouse steps, snatching her dirty flannel and swinging it over her shoulder, she doesn't know how she's still standing. Her thighs are quaking from exhaustion, just barely carrying her through door and into the kitchen. But then she sees you, her lovely wife, finishing up dinner and looking as gorgeous as ever, and it's like the weight of the day is erased, lifted from her shoulders.

You spin around to look at her, having heard her slumping through the house in her big ol' work boots. The grin on your face makes her heart flutter, your lipstick perfect as always and your arms held out for a hug. You're absolutely gorgeous, as beautiful as the day she met you, and Abby's just so glad to be back with you.

"Heya there, darlin'," She drawls as she slumps over to you, melting into your outstretched arms.

You wrap her up in a hug, not caring about how sweaty she is, just wanting, needing, to hold your girl. "Mmm, hi baby, ya done with the field?"

"Mhm, finally done plowing. Gonna do one last check tomorrow and then get to planting, hopefully," She mumbles into your hair, feeling your hands trailing up and down her back. It's good, but not enough. She groans, melting into you and pressing a kiss to your cheek, huffing out a sigh.

"Everything alright there, big girl?"

"Mmm, my back's sore 'n your hands feel real good."

"Aww, maybe, after dinner and after you shower, I could give you a massage? How's that sound?"

Abby hums, squeezing you and kissing your forehead before pulling back and pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. "Sounds incredible, sugar. What did I do to deserve you?"

"You're Abby Anderson, 's more than enough baby," Your voice is soft, whispered against her lips like a prayer. When you pull away, you giggle at the remnants of lipstick on her lips. With a swipe of your thumb, you wipe it away, giggling at her pout. "Now go sit down, I'll bring you a bowl."

Abby giggles, trailing towards the kitchen table and sitting down, smoothing her hands down her thighs as she sits. She eases into her usual manspread, rough denim pulled taut over her thighs. Your eyes catch on them when you walk over with two bowls of stew, a loaf of freshly baked bread tucked under one arm.

“Mm, thank you darlin’, this looks delicious,” Abby hums, watching as you sit down. She gently takes the bread knife from the center of the table, slicing off some of the loaf and handing it to you before cutting her own piece.

When she leans forward to eat, elbows on the table in a complete lack of dining etiquette (though neither of y’all ever really cared for it), she groans. The tightness in her back is striking with a vengeance, egged on by the promise of relief at the hands of her wife.

"Oh honey," You murmur, frowning at her.

"Mm, 's okay. Just a lil tight," Abby says, giving you a tight smile. She gets through the rest of her meal with minimal movement, having to sit up straight like her dad always said she should. By the time y'all are done, she's dying to get into the shower and wash off all the grime that had settled on her skin.

While she's off showering, you set your plan into motion. Y'all have a habit of leaving out pajamas for each other, whenever you can. Since you're gonna give Abby a massage when she's out, you should pick pajamas that give you easy access, right?

So you leave a pair of soft grey boy shorts on the bathroom counter, and nothing else. All in the name of having full access to her back, of course.

Then you run to grab one of your body oils from your vanity, a rosemary one that would smell delicious with her body wash. You set it out on the bedside table, alongside some water and a hair clip for Abby. And, for good measure, you reapply your lipstick.

You can hear Abby step out of the shower, can hear her scoff and giggle when she sees the 'pajamas' you laid out for her. When she steps out of the bathroom, hair damp and just barely covering her nipples, soft cotton stretched over her ass and hips, she looks delicious.

"Now what's this about? Thought you were offering to give me a massage outta the goodness of your heart, turns out you just wanted me naked, huh?" She chides, walking over to your position on the bed, kneeling and looking all pretty for her.

When she leans into to kiss you, you press one hand to the center of her chest and keep her at bay. "I am gonna give you a massage, now lay down on your tummy, big girl."

"Yes ma'am."

You let her get situated, laying face down on the bed with her arms folded up under her head. You watch the way her back shifts, muscles rippling as she gets comfortable. She's beautiful, a goddess, and you want to spend the rest of your life worshipping her.

Once she's settled in, you straddle the backs of her thighs, eliciting a nervous giggle from her.

"Whatcha doing there, honey?"

She sounds so giddy, you almost feel bad that you're not gonna give her anything right now. "Settle down big girl, just trying to get access to your back."

You swear you can almost hear her pout when she says, "Okay :(."

She hands you the body oil from the bedside table, settling back into position as you uncap the bottle and pour a small amount into your hand. Rubbing it between your palms to warm it up, you then place your hands on Abby's back and start spreading it over her muscles.

You can feel how tense she is, noting which spots are gonna need the most work as you coat her sore muscles in a thin sheen of oil. Everything is so warm and hazy, since you'd turned off the main lights and left only a few dim lamps and some candles on while Abby was showering.

Abby, for her part, is already in heaven. She's always had a thing about feeling your body weight on her, as in she fucking loves it, so the feeling of you sitting on her thighs is already making her head all fuzzy. To add to it, your hands, soft from gentle work – courtesy of Abby, who never lets you do the rough work on the farm that has calloused her own hands – feel so fucking good on her back. Your touch always melts her into a puddle, but when it's combined with the slick slide of oil and a gentle massaging at her sore back? God, she's melting faster than an icecream in the summer sun.

With every pass of your hands over her sore back, she's whimpering and sighing, and you can feel the heat in your lower belly growing warmer and warmer. It wasn't your intention to get this aroused, but when Abby looks so sweet, so submissive, under your touch, how could you not?

You refocus your attentions, working the knots out of her upper and middle back with a firm press of your hands. The groans she lets out every time you hit a tough spot make you shaky, sounding far too close to the noises she makes when you're pressed up against her. It makes you nervous, giddy with excitement at just how much you want her, how much you want to please her. You're so distracted by the thought and image of her, needy under your touch, you barely notice when she starts talking.

"Mmm, that's good baby, I think you got it all," She murmurs, sounding utterly boneless. She's limp under your touch, the drowsiness creeping in.

"I'm not done yet baby, you're also tense," You mumble, slowly dragging your hands down her back, thumbs massaging at her back dimples, "down here."

Abby lets out a soft, "Oh", before whimpering at the feel of you in massaging her hips. Even if she usually doms, the feel of your thumbs in that very specific spot conjures up images of her on her hands and knees, staring at herself in the mirror while you bounce her back onto your cock, the slick noises of her cunt making her flush bright red. It makes her press her face into the mattress, blush creeping higher and higher as your hands slide lower and lower, until your finger tips are trailing at the waist band of her undies.

"Can I take these off?" You ask, leaning down to press a soft kiss between her shoulder blades.

"Mhm, please," Abby begs, her voice sweet and whiny, face still shoved into the mattress. It makes you giggle, even as you hook your fingers into her panties and pull them down, unfairly slow. You're drooling by the time her ass if exposed, but you almost moan when you see the string of slick and the wet patch left on her panties. You drag them all the way off, throwing them in the general direction of the bathroom.

Once they're gone, her gorgeous ass is completely exposed to you, but her pretty cunt is hidden, her thick thighs allowing you only a glimpse of her slick folds. Abby's breathing is heavy, and you can tell she's trying to stay composed even as you drip more oil onto your hands and rub them together.

Abby whimpers when you run your hands up her thighs, cupping under her ass and massaging the fat of it. You slide your thumbs up, spreading her ass apart and making her whine at the feeling of her pussy being spread open. You haven't even really touched her and she's leaking, for fuck sakes, her pussy made a slick lil noise when you spread it apart.

"Aw, baby, you're this needy already?" You chide, massaging her ass and watching her clench around nothing. A little dribble of slit leaks out of it, and you can't stop yourself from letting your thumb wipe it up, popping your thumb into your mouth and moaning at her taste.

"You've been, shit, you've been teasing me this whole time," She whines, wiggling her ass for you. You giggle, catching sight of the lipstick ring left around your thumb and feeling an idea grow in your head.

"Abby, get on all fours if you want me to fix that," You order, leaving one gentle swat on her ass before sliding off her legs, letting her scramble into position.

Everything about her makes your mouth water, from the slick sheen of oil and sweat on her body to the arch of her back, and the way she spreads her thighs just enough to give you a good look at her aching cunt.

"You're such a good girl, Abby, did so good," You murmur, getting behind her and rubbing at her ass, your tone soft and teasing as you slip into a more dominant role. She whines, wiggling even more as you lean forward, pressing a kiss to the swell of her ass.

When you pull back, you nearly moan, your idea having come true. Left on the plush fat of her right asscheek is a perfect lipstick mark, and the rest of her freckled ass and thighs are just begging for more marks. You giggle, pressing more kisses all over her ass and thighs.

Abby's confused, loving the attention but not knowing why you're just kissing her when her pussy is right there, needy for you. She nearly starts crying when you slide off the bed, grabbing something from the vanity and running back. The next time she feels you kiss her ass, it's a little wetter, stickier than before.

"What're you doing back there?" She asks, head a little fuzzy from your kisses.

"Mm, I could show you. Are you okay with me taking a picture of you?" You ask, pressing more kisses down her thighs, framing her pussy in pretty little kisses.

Abby swears she blacks out for a second, the sheer hotness of the question making her dizzy. "Yeah, yeah, of course, go ahead."

You hum, pleased with her answer and the desperation in her voice. Swiping your phone from the edge of the bed and opening up the camera, you point it at Abby. She looks gorgeous, completely needy and covered in lipstick kisses, slick dripping down her thighs and pretty hole aching for you. The hair around her pussy is slicked down, dark with wet, her bush wet and framing her clit. Her clit, large and swollen, is just peeking out of its hood, and she looks absolutely debauched. You take the picture and hand her your phone, waiting for her reaction.

Abby is staring in awe, not entirely convinced that's her. She looks so slutty, and it makes her hot all over. She lets out a little "oh lord" before handing you the phone.

"Mhm, that's all you pretty girl, you look absolutely gorgeous," You murmur, scratching your nails down the side of her thigh. She whines, arching her back even more as she shoves her face into the mattress.

"Uh huh, the prettiest, being so good for me," You whisper, bending down to press a trail of kisses all the way to her cunt. You lick a stripe from her clit to her hole, making Abby whine and scramble for purchase on the plush bedding.

You lap up the slick leaking out of her hole, spreading it over her clit before laving at it with the flat of your tongue.

"Fu-fuck sugar," Abby whines, bucking back into you. You grip at her thighs, trying to hold her in place as you dig in, pressing a kiss to her entrance before wiggling your tongue in. You fuck her with your tongue, listening to her whimpers before pulling back and spreading her pussy apart with your thumbs.

"Hmm, got the prettiest pussy ever," You tell her, watching her squirm under your attention. She tries to shift her thighs closer together, but stops at your disapproving hum.

With one hand, you trail two fingers down her cunt, pressing into her clit before dragging back up and teasing her hole. You want her to beg for it, and beg she does.

"Shit, baby, please, please fuck me," She cries, pressing back into you and trying to push your fingers in. You chuckle, loving how needy she is and not wanting to torture her too much.

"Hmm, good girl," You hum, as you press two fingers into her cunt. Abby moans into the mattress, loving the stretch. When you're in to the hilt, Abby clenches around your digits, a shiver running up her spine.

You lean down, angling your hand so you can both fuck her with you fingers and eat her out. You leave little licks at her clit, starting to fuck your fingers in and out of her, curling them just enough to try and press at her g-spot. When you get the right angle, pushing up against that gushy little spot, Abby wails, pressing back against you and clenching.

You hum against her clit, sucking on it lightly while pressing against her g-spot, feeling her leak around your fingers.

"G'so good baby, hmmm– fuck" She whines, her voice muffled into the comforter.

You can feel her thighs twitching, and decide she's getting too close too fast. Pulling off of her clit, you trail your tongue around her pussy, from the edge of her hole, where she's taking your fingers so well, to the spot right under her clit, teasing her with the almost-stimulation. You keep toying with her, avoiding her clit even as you finger her, driving her insane.

"C'mon baby, please, I wanna cum, please - fuck, 'wanna cum for you," She whines, kicking one leg and bucking back into you.

"Aww, my needy girl, you wanna cum?" You tease, leaning up to curve your body over hers and press a kiss behind her ear.

"Yes, yes please, ma'am, please, I need it," She cries, turning her head to look at you, making your heart skip a beat. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes blown out and her lips plumped up from biting at them. She's beautiful, your angel and your love, and you feel the overwhelming. need to please her.

"You're so good for me Abby, 'll make you cum," You murmur, pressing a soft kiss to her lips before sliding back down. You take one glance at her ass and thighs, still covered in smeared lipstick marks. Pressing one more kiss to her ass, you dive back into her cunt, licking and kissing and sucking at her clit, making out with it as you fucking her even harder.

Abby whines, dropping her head onto the bed and arching her back even more, letting you play with her pussy. You can feel her getting closer, the excess slick, the tremble of her thighs, the clenching of her walls around your fingers. She's almost there, she just needs a little something. And god, you deliver.

You spit on her clit and suck on it, massaging her g-spot with no mercy as you stimulate her sensitive little nub, moaning against her when Abby wails, pussy convulsing around your fingers and her whole body shaking. She's a wreck, pushing back against you and babbling into the bed. Her clit throbs under your tongue, a twitchy mess.

You fuck her through it, feeling her drip around your fingers, leaving a ring of creamy cum for you to lick up. She squeals as you punch at her g-spot, extending her orgasm as she clenches around you, keeping your fingers inside her.

Slowly, you ease your fingers to a stop and pull out, pressing a kiss to her clit before pulling away. Abby lets her breathing even out, feeling as you rubbing her hips, waiting to see what she needs. Abby lets out a blissed out sigh and sits up on her legs, reaching back for you to wrap your arms around her.

You do, hugging her from behind and laying your head on her shoulder, pressing kisses to the muscle. "How're you feeling baby?"

"Hmm, perfect," She hums, tilting her head to kiss your temple, "You're so good to me."

"You're so good to me, Abigail, I love taking care of you," You mumble, meeting her in a soft kiss. It's so gentle, and you can feel her trying to push every ounce of love into this kiss. It's heart achingly sweet, like every moment you have with her.

"Mm, gonna let me take care of you now?" She asks, catching you of guard as she turns around and eases you back onto the bed. "Because I think you're also feeling a lil tense. Strip and hand me the oil."

ahhhhhhhhhhHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

[lirotation]

Jaheira said to Tav at the reunion party, "Well, now. You can make yourself presentable, when you have a mind to." It inspired this headcanon:

My Tav is a nerd who has no sense of fashion, and Astarion insisted on dress to impress for the night. So he gifted her a dress, and became her stylist extraordinaire earlier that day.

Astarion X Amaara(my wizard Tav) fluff

As Amaara emerged dressed in casual leggings and a tank, Astarion arched an eyebrow. "Attending the reunion like that, my dear? '' 

Amaara glanced down at her outfit in surprise. "What's wrong with it?"

"Oh, nothing. You look lovely, and you would still look lovely covered in intellect devourer’s gray matter," Astarion tutted, casting his gaze critically over her outfit.

Amaara chuckled. "Well, I've come a long way from dressing like my elderly professors, believe me." She looked further at her wardrobe, a bit self-consciously. "But you're right - I could use an expert's guidance. So…help me pick something that looks the best, please.”

He eyed her wardrobe wearily, "Fashion falls low on your list of priorities, it’s obvious. Personally, I think you look your best wearing nothing, but alas, that’s reserved for my eyes only.“ He turned to open the seldom-used closet in the corner of their inn room, “I have just the thing in line with the grandeur I intend us to exude this evening."

“This," he declared, holding up a flowing dress in her favorite color, "is far more suitable for the occasion."

Amaara was surprised, “Wow, when did you…”

“I had it commissioned right after receiving Wither’s invitation. I do know your size most intimately, my dear.”

After she put on the dress, Astarion guided Amaara to the vanity table, an array of ornate hairpins and brushes laid out before the gilt-edged mirror. As he stood behind her and ran his fingers through her dark tresses, only her reflection gazed back - his own form conspicuously absent.

Amaara watched the mirror with widening eyes as the hairpins began lifting and gliding through the air, seemingly of their own volition to twist back intricately piled locks and spiraling curls framing her face.

She couldn’t help but giggled, “My hair decided to style itself! Now that’s a dream come true.”

A grin tugged at Astarion's lips as Amaara's peals of laughter filled the room. “Yes yes. Now, sit still, lest your hair decide to leave your scalp altogether.”

Astarion deftly dressed the unmanageable hair into an elegant, braided updo. 

With a flourish, he placed the final pin.

His voice purred low at her ear. “There now...a vision to launch a thousand torrid dreams. None shall have eyes for another, once you walk through the portal on my arm tonight."

She turned to look at him, laughter subdued, expression soft. “Thank you, my love...no one’s pampered me so in long years.”

He brushed a loose curl back, voice sincere. "A small gesture of appreciation for the happiness you’ve gifted me these past six months," he paused, leaned in closer, and confessed in almost a whisper, “Joy profound enough to counterbalance two centuries of misery.”

[pentacass]

Can you tell us more about Chukaem and Ves? How they worked together on Makeb? How long does Chukaem hunt Ves and Lana? Does she ever get close to them? And any other tidbits you want to share, you have free rein to let your brain go BRRRRRR if you want lol

ohhhboy here we go!!! thenk for ask :D

How they worked together on Makeb - It was professional, but incredibly tense. Chukaem is your typical Sith, trampling on everyone else to reach her goal, arrogance made all the worse by her status as Wrath. By then, Ves had been tempered by her crew and Marr, and viewed Chukaem's outbursts and aggression towards their own allies as unnecessary and detrimental to their mission. They clashed, but never came to blows. (Ashara and DS!Jaesa did though. Ash won :3)

Though the mission was successful, they came away hating each other. Ves hated the Wrath for her callousness, blind reverence of the Emperor, and putting her lust for power above the stability of the Empire. Chukaem hated Avriss right back - for her lack of respect for the Emperor and his Wrath, her ostentatious vanity, her softer hand on their Imperial subjects that would 'breed weakness' in their ranks.

Funny story (to be included in fic): because of how badly Chukaem treats her crew, Ves managed to win over Vette by simply feeding her cake. Not that Chukaem knows about it. All she saw was Vette drifting over to Avriss' crew, willing to spend more time with them, and identified Avriss as a threat to her authority.

Why were they both assigned to Makeb - Ves could've handled it on her own, but Darth Marr wanted her to take the chance to assess the Wrath - would Chukaem be willing to work with Marr and Avriss to secure the Empire's future, out of the Emperor's long shadow?

Ves' answer is no, viewing the Wrath as nothing more than an attack dog with no guiding hand on her leash, and she's right. The Wrath is near fanatical in her loyalty to the Emperor - the one who granted her power above all. She did not support the Empire when it moved on from Vitiate, and went rogue when Acina took the throne, choosing to strike at the Empire's enemies from the shadows, on her own authority bestowed by an Emperor long gone.

After Tenebrae is slain in EoO, Chukaem goes off the deep end, unable to feel her Emperor's weight in the Force anymore. She turns into a killing machine, hunting down those she deems a threat to the Empire, and those who'd turned traitor. Aelirra, Vestra, and Lana are at the top of her list, but Ves gets the top 'Fuck You' spot thanks to their funtimes on Makeb.

How long does Chukaem hunt Ves and Lana - I'm not too sure! I have some lines for a showdown that references Ves and Lana's kids, but I feel like Chukaem wouldn't leave them alone for that long. To be decided later.

Does she ever get close to them - On a few occasions, which is what tips them off to the former Wrath hunting them. Haven't worked out the final showdown's specifics yet, but Ves will lure Chukaem to a remote location by herself (perhaps forced by circumstance), fire off a distress signal to Lana and the Alliance, and fight off the Wrath in the meantime.

I'm both looking forward to and dreading writing Ves and Chukaem's battle, cos it is very Epic in my brain and will probably end up as a stickman equivalent written down lmaoo. But Ves will feel a very primal fear for the first time in ages, and has to dig into the deepest, darkest depths of her power to face down a Sith who has immersed herself in the Dark Side for decades, turning into a nigh-eldritch being that makes the Force itself wither in her presence.

Here have a bite from the notes I've jotted down:

"A traitor for a wife, a failure for a daughter, a Jedi for a son." The tip of a lightsaber, charred orange and black, boils the air beneath Vestra's chin. "A family that befits you - a disgrace to the Sith." Ves subtly pushes herself away from the blade, elbows digging against soil, maimed leg dragged over dirt. Despite her pain, she gathers the blood in her mouth and spits it at Chukaem's feet. "Better a disgrace than a hideous little bitch like you." A sneer parts Chukaem's lips, peeking from beneath her cracked rebreather. "Pathetic." Lightsaber rises for the killing blow. Ves unleashes a storm of lightning right into her gut, blowing her back.

[seraphiism]

𓆩 ღ 𓆪 𝐂𝐎𝐃𝐀

( i think of all that might have been / waiting here, for evermore. ) 

chara : belial fandom : granblue fantasy quote cr : dan stevens a/n : ty for the comm :^)

ACT ONE : IT IS A MYTH THAT ANGELS ARE BORN FROM PURITIES AND VIRTUES, AND IN THE TRUEST FORM OF A HIGHER BEING, AN ANGEL IS A BEAST, A BURDEN, A BRUTALITY : FRIGHTENING, MONSTROUS, AND IN DESPERATE DESIRE FOR A DAMNATION THEY WILL CALL LOVE.

belial is a curse in existence, created with intention but a failure in execution. how very fitting for him, a fallen angel that consumes every ounce of hatred and twists it into something so hideously and falsely beautiful. how his wings have darkened so, white muddled and stained with black. but that is not his true form, not the core of his existence, and should you ever ask to see it, he will laugh, and it will break your heart over and over again, just as much as it breaks his.

he is a feign divinity made of hypocrisy and deceptions ; in the knowing of you, he realizes that the ugly truth is that you are entirely the opposite of him – you are what an angel should be, yet you are human, and that is the vast difference that will tear you apart in the end.

“asking to see my truest self, are you?” his voice is low, taunting, yet there is a familiar affection laced beneath it. “haven’t you seen just enough of me?”

he’s always been one to hide his feelings, always been one to put on a facade, throwing another into confusion and chaos in order to carry out his true intentions. but you’ve never fallen for his tricks– not you, never you, he’s noticed, and you are far more stubborn and resilient than he expected. he simply smiles a teasing smile, but you almost wonder if you sense a melancholy resting on the curve of his lips.

“please,” you whisper, and surely it is the way you plead that sends a shiver down his spine, but he will lie, tell himself it’s the frigid air, “i want to see all of you.”

“oh, but don’t you understand why angels warn humans to not be afraid?” he asks, amusement clear in his voice. “what makes you think a fallen angel is any less frightening?”

your hand cups his cheek, tender, and he almost instinctively leans into your touch.

“i won’t be afraid, belial.”

he hums, content, takes your hand and presses a kiss against your wrist. your pulse quickens, and he cannot help but smile at the realization.

foolish being, he thinks, but at the end of it all, he does not know who he refers to.

( it is a very cruel thing, this version of love he is falling into : the innocence of need, the slow decay of fantasy in this swan song between beauty and beast. )

ACT TWO : IT IS A MYTH THAT BEAUTY IS BORN FROM VANITY AND EGOTISMS, AND IN THE TRUEST FORM OF SELF, THE BEAUTY IS THE HEART, A KINDNESS, A BENEVOLENCE : SELFLESS, MERCIFUL, AND IN DESPERATE DESIRE FOR A DELICACY THEY WILL CALL LOVE.

but love is a CURSE, and it is not something that belongs in the bloodied hands of the fiend. it is something he has sought after since the beginning of genesis, and in the failed creation’s mind, love has always been a distortion : maddening, mindless, but befitting for a beast. it was all he knew, all he felt, all he thought he deserved. but what he shares with you – it is so vastly different in its purest form : an acceptance, a relentless longing, the knowing that it will end in remorse and resignation, and the knowing that goodbye will be the right choice at the end of the line.

to have something this kind, to know it in the most cherished of ways – it is slipping through his fingers, slowly slowly slowly, and he knows it, yet he does not try to save it. it is not meant for the saving, this connection between souls, because the beast is a curse, woven with thorns, and the beauty is a blessing, a rose meant to bloom, not wither.

yes, belial thinks, you are his blessing. he almost laughs at the sentiment, bittersweet, decayed. it is only then that he, an angel with a venomous tongue, is allowed to speak such a virtuous word. maybe it is because of the way you sleep soundly in his arms, trusting enough to fall into a deep slumber in the presence of the devil in disguise, or maybe it is because of the rare peace that he hardly subjects himself to– how it sinks into the crevices of a broken being, restores them with gold, granting silent and temporary permission to something never meant to be.

maybe it is because of the warmth that settles in the little distance between your bodies, the feeling of your heartbeat a fascination due to the absence of his. belial has a still heart, frozen in experimentation gone wrong, yet there is something else that flourishes inside his chest, and it is so beautiful and terrifying all the same.

it is very much love that is a mass of contradictions, and he feels it in the way you place your heart in his hands, the aching of his claws itching for release. you know of this, you do, but you know he would never destroy what remains of your humanity.

you are meant for something good, something better. he is everything you should not have, and you are everything he wants to have.

you are not meant to be. he knows this, and so he decides this fairytale must come to an end, just as all stories do. it will not have a happy ending, but none of them do, do they? he smiles, a quiet, foreign sorrow somewhere in the depths of defeat.

he moves swiftly, carefully, as to not wake you. he watches your sleeping figure, feels this strange sharpness in his heart. he is not used to this kind of pain; there is no joy or thrill to be found in it, only a lingering grief he cannot understand. he tears his gaze away, turns to leave.

it is time for the curtain call.

“you’re leaving, aren’t you?”

he should have known you were pretending.

he doesn’t move, doesn’t turn around. you don’t expect him to, and maybe it’s better that way. your voice is heavy with exhaustion, but not surprise, and maybe you both have known that this is how it would end. he doesn’t speak, but you can almost imagine that idiotic, coy smile he puts on for show.

instead, he smiles a sad smile.

“better this way, hm?” he hardly looks over his shoulder, but he can feel your gaze nonetheless. “it was fun while it lasted.”

he is going to leave you, let you go, knowing you will seek happiness elsewhere. he has always been so sickeningly selfish, but for you, he will not be.

you will not convince him to stay, not now. but this is your story, too. you will control how it ends.

perhaps in another life, he muses, should there be one after this, you will coexist in a world where you are meant to be happy together. but not in this life. not in this world.

he leaves, and somewhere, a rose petal falls, slowly slowly slowly.

( yes, this fairy tale ends in remorse and resignation. yes, an angel reminds himself, goodbye is the right choice. )

ACT THREE : IT IS A MYTH THAT BEASTS ARE BORN FROM EVILS AND DEPRAVITIES, AND IN THE TRUEST FORM OF AN AVATAR, A BEAST IS A VULNERABILITY, A LONELINESS, AN ACHING : LOVELORN, HYPOCRITICAL, AND IN DESPERATE DESIRE FOR A DOOM THEY WILL CALL LOVE.

you occupy his thoughts more than you should, and even though you are apart, he still watches over you. from the skies, he ensures your safety, a bittersweet relief washing over him when he sees that you are healing from the hurt. he wonders if he is healing, too. he wonders if he made the right decision.

it is safer, better this way. a fallen angel has no place in the heart of a human. it doesn’t matter what he desires, what he wants.

he smiles, wonders what it would still be like, having you at his side. he does not dare admit he misses you– there’s no need to solidify the pain, acknowledge its unwanted presence.

love is a very cruel and tragic being, isn’t it?

something inside slowly unravels– it is not wrath that unleashes his true form, but perhaps it is a silent cry of mourning, this shift in appearance : the presence of thorns, so violently red, the markings that adorn his body, the black sclera. there is no need for it, but he does not choose to suppress it. he hums in forced amusement, closes his eyes. he wonders if you truly would have been fearless of him in this state. what a shame it is that he will never know.

time passes. he feels something strange in his chest– an unknown sensation, a jolt, and he wonders if that is the sensation of a beating heart. he opens his eyes to the familiar blue skies.

“you’re persistent. you’ve found me, after all.”

you stand behind him, and he can practically feel your sorrow, your frustration, that slight anger. when he turns around, he sees it all. from the moment he left, you knew you would find him, but the path to reunion has not been an easy one. you freeze, and he forces a grin.

“how is it? my truest form? does it frighten you?”

you don’t speak for a long while. it doesn’t, no. not at all. you have always found belial beautiful, and you still do. but there’s this dying grief that overwhelms you, the same grief you have carried in all the time you have been separated. it tastes bitter on your tongue, renders you speechless.

you’ve been waiting for this moment, and now that it’s here, you just–

you swallow hard. love is not meant to be cruel, nor tragic. one step forward, then another. his expression is unreadable, carefully crafted. it’s no longer that mischievous facade nor is it dejection. you’ve always been one to see through his games though, and somewhere in the deep red, there’s this excruciating loneliness that you also feel.

“you couldn’t love someone like me, right?” he laughs. “a fallen angel with the appearance of a demon.”

but you don’t falter. you don’t buy it.

“enough, belial.” your voice wavers, the words heavy on your tongue. how they almost threaten to choke you, and you wonder what will take you first : the tides of longing or the courage that dies in words unspoken. “why do you think i’ve spent all this time searching for you?”

your fingers trace over his markings, the ghost of your touch leaving a burning sensation in their wake. you’re trembling, he notices, and he feels it in the way you cup his face in your hands, gentle. you look at him, and he almost wonders if he is imagining the reverence and ardor in your gaze.

“you left because you thought it was better that way, right? because you thought i could find someone better, someone worthy.” you murmur, and now it is his hands that shake this time. “because you think you’re not worthy of anything good, because everything you know is painful, so you think you’re better off subjecting yourself to the pain because it’s all you know.” and there is this quiet smile that blossoms on your lips, and it grows the slightest bit when you see that quiet uncertainty in crimson hues. “you can love, belial. you can be loved.”

your thumb grazes over the markings once more, and he feels that frightening sensation in his heart again– a dull thud, slow– but then it picks up in its pacing, beats and beats and beats, and surely you must hear it too, the way it pounds so violently.

“there’s no one better, belial. it’s you that i want. it’s always been you.”

you take his hand, press a kiss against the inside of his wrist, and he almost laughs at the familiarity of it all. you’ve always had him wrapped around your finger.

“you’ve always been a stubborn one, haven’t you?” his lips meet yours, and he feels the way you smile into the kiss. “be careful you don’t regret this.”

you laugh, squeeze his hand.

“i won’t, belial.”

( yes, this fairy tale beloved ends with reunion and revelations. yes, belial reminds himself, your fingers laced with his, you are his blessing, his happy ending. )

[sweet-sweet-petunia]

NormalTales - A Regular Podcast and Secret Santa Gift

We decided to do a little Secret Santa ficlet exchange, so here is my fic for @rumor-weed!

“Welcome to NormalTales!” Bob’s voice rang out through the speakers and earbuds of the thousands of listeners they’d amassed. “A regular podcast, for regular, human people. I’m Bob-”

“And I’m Larry!”

“And as always, we’re your co-hosts for this week’s podcast.”

“We’ve got a great show with our great crew!” Larry’s voice was peppy. “Some of our favorite returning segments and favorite returning guest stars! And of course, our lovely executive producer…”

“Can you go one show without shouting out your girlfriend?” Bob teased.

Larry, unbeknown to listeners, shook his head. “No can do, Bob. Petunia’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. The world must know!”

“Please,” Petunia laughed. “It’s a vanity title. Back on topic, guys. You’re introducing this week’s episode.”

“That’s right!” Bob was right back on script. “This week, we decided to go with a simple but important theme. Family.”

“Found or otherwise!” Larry chirped.

Bob continued to explain “As always, we gave our guest hosts the theme and let them chose what it meant to them, and what stories they wanted to tell. First up, we’ll be hearing from Archibald and Lovey, with their weekly mystery story segment.”

There was a faint bit of outro music, and then the intro, a classy piano playing a slightly offputting, perhaps menacing, piece. “Welcome back, loyal patrons” Archibald greeted. “To Murder’s In The Heir.”

“A hair rising, spine tingling story of a man killed the night before his new will was to be signed.” Lovey hammed it up for the audience at home. “Any of his heirs had motive, as they were to receive a larger sum on the previous document, but who had the guts to commit the crime?”

Back in the main studio, Bob, mic off, whispered “Is this a murder mystery? Is that allowed?”

“You did say they could do whatever they want with the theme.” Larry reminded him.

The couple, meanwhile, continued on, Lovey theorizing “Of course, Miss Withers, his personal nurse, had the motive, means, and physical proximity-”

“This doesn’t seem appropriate for a family-friendly podcast!” Bob harshly whispered.

“I got this.” Petunia sighed, phasing them out and back to Bob and Larry. 

“What a great story!” Bob forced out, laughing awkwardly.

Larry, however, didn’t miss a beat, his professional demeanor shining through, his ‘camera ready’ personality still on, chiming in “And now it’s Time For Tom!”

A little intro played, a generic sounding voice singing out a peppy “It’s Time For Tom!”

“That’s me!” Tom’s southern twang immediately recognizable. “Bob wants me to talk about family. An I ain’t know why he woulda thought that’s a good idea, but I’m gettin’ paid regardless.”

“Isn’t he still fighting with his dad?” Petunia whispered to Bob and Larry.

“They’re fighting?!?” Bob whispered back, frenzied. 

“Yeah, something about a half sister, or something.” Larry nodded.

“How many kids does Pa have???” Bob questioned. Up until this moment he genuinely thought there was only Tom and Rosie.

Larry bit his lip in thought for a moment, before responding “Um, at least four.”

“...why I gotta raise my own sister?” Tom continued to rant. “Just cause I’m 18? Barely an adult, not that Pa cares none. And Rosie ain’t no picnic neither! In fact-”

“Petunia?” Bob asked warily.

“Already on it.” She shook her head, bringing the broadcast back to the hosts.

“W-well, Tom sure had a lot to say about his dad, but I’m sure his dad has a lot to say, too!” Larry tried to recover. 

“Right, Larry.” Bob nodded, thankful that they were able to segue without causing too much additional commotion. “And kids listening at home, adults always say to respect your elders. But we should do more than just respect them. Let’s talk to them! Befriend them! They have a lot of interesting stories they can share!”

Petunia phased in the intro, a remix of Pa saying “b-b-b back b-b-back b-b-back in my day…”

And then the real Pa’s voice came flooding in “Welcome to Back in My Day! The part of the show where Nebby and I talk about the way things used to be!”

“Kids these days don’t even know about VCRs,” Nebby sighed “Let alone CD Walkmans…”

“Walkmans?!?” Pa cried, confused. “Don’t you remember listening to Buddy Holly on the gramophone?”

“How old do you think I am?” Nezzer pleased. 

Pa paused, before confessing “I…I knew you were younger than me. But I was thinking 10, maybe 15 years? Bob and Larry remember VCRs and Walkmans, Nebby.”

“Do you think I’m at least a generation older than those two?” Mr. Nezzer questioned, genuinely confused.

“Well, I mean, I did…”

Nezzer let out a sharp gasp, “I am 37 years young! Megan and I went to high school together! We were glee club rivals! Did I ever tell you about that? About me and Megan in the same glee club? She always got the solos!”

Bob’s eyes went wide. “Oh. Megan’s not gonna be happy about her age going on the air like that.”

“Why’s it matter?” Larry questioned, oblivious. “She has a whole son. She’s clearly not 20 anymore.”

“Not all of Bumblyburg needs to know that.” Bob bit his lip nervously.

Petunia was once again quick to jump in, cutting the Back In My Day segment off. “You’re clear.” she signaled, nodding to Larry. 

“Wasn’t that informative!” Larry smiled into the mic, “and now, on the theme of family, let’s talk about Found Family! The note I made on my phone says,” he paused, clearing his throat. “Urban Dictionary defines Found Family as the phenomenon where a group of people come to love each other like family, even though they aren't biologically related. You might have this feeling, about, say, a sports team! Which is why we’re proud to introduce our newest segment, Life’s A Bowl. Starring Bumblyburg’s favorite bowling league team!” A short, snappy intro played, the words “Life’s A Bowl!” being sung with a quick chime at the end.

“Imagine laying pipe to that.” Audrey joked.

Art Bigotti blinked, taken back, seeming…a bit impressed? “You smoke, Audrey? I didn’t know that about you.”

“That’s not what that means.” Audrey stated simply.

“Back on topic.” Bob redirected.

“Did we have a topic?” Dad, as in Junior’s Dad, questioned. “Are we just talking about the bowling team?”

“I guess.” Bob sounded tepid. “And family. Found family.”

“If we’re talking about bowling and family,” Audrey jumped in. “Petunia should be in this conversation, too.”

Bob narrowed his eyes. “She’s not on the team.”

“No,” Audrey shrugged. “But she is my ride.”

“She is there every tournament.” Dad agreed. 

“Which one’s Petunia again?” Art questioned quietly.

“The redhead.” Dad whispered back.

“All redheads are related, you know that right? They’re all-” Audrey started, but was cut off.

“That’s enough out of you.” Bob interrupted.

Audrey gasped, feigning shock. “Bobby! And here I was not even sprouting a rumor-”

“Sprouting misinformation.” Bob deadpanned. “On my podcast. And we’re supposed to be talking about found family.”

“I wish some family stayed not found…” Art mumbled under his breath.

“What was that?” Dad questioned.

Art was a little too quick in his response of “Nothing!”

Bob, desperately, tried to get the conversation back on track. “How long have we been bowling together, anyhow?”

There was a short pause. A moment of thought. Eventually it was Dad who chimed in with “3 years now, I think!”

“Has it really been that long?” Audrey gasped. “Maybe we really are a little family. We sure bicker like one.”

A beat. A long pause.

“Was that….” Petunia whispered, almost afraid of what the answer might be “...was that a successful segment?”

“I dunno,” Larry whispered back. “I don’t think we ever had one of those before.”

Petunia loudly cleared her throat, and cheerily introduced “And now a short break to focus on health and wellness!”

A few notes of music played, serving as an intro. “Hello everyone! It’s me, Larry! You remember, from the podcast? And I’m here with my good friend Goliath.”

“Hi.” came the much lower voice.

“Now, Goliath, you’re a pretty active fellow, aren’t you?” Larry asked.

“That is right.” Goliath, clearly reading off of queue cards, replied. “And being such an active guy, sometimes, I forget to stretch. And when a back as big of mine hurts, what can you do?”

“I bet sometimes you feel like you need a whole new spine.” Larry delivered his lines with a charismatic ease. “Lucky for you, you don’t need a whole spine replacement with the brand new vertebrae pillow!”

“Is this what we’re shilling?” Goliath questioned.

Larry hissed “Stick to the script.”

“My days of back pain are over!” Goliath’s voice was once again flat, clearly reading each word individually.

“And yours can be too!” Larry chirped. “Available only at StuffMart. Terms and Conditions may apply. Not approved by doctors and not an actual pillow.”

Bob, wondering why they even bothered to take that ad in the first place, shook his head, going back on script. “Well, we’ve heard from our elders on Back In My Day, now let’s hear from the future generation. Junior and Laura are back with their monthly segment - New Kids Oughta Talk!”

Much like every segment before them, Junior and Laura waited for their intro to play before calling out “Hi!”

“I’m Junior!”

“And I’m Laura!”

“And this is New Kids Oughta Talk!”

“The show where me and Junior find other kids and interview them. Kid to kid.” Laura nodded, though the listeners at home could not see that.

The excitement in Junior’s voice was palpable as he introduced “Today we have some very special guests! Let’s give a warm welcome to Egg Boy and Bathroom Girl!”

“Egg Boy and Bathroom Girl?” Bob repeated, looking at Larry and then Petunia, concerned.

“Allo allo!” The boy’s voice was peppy. “I’m Egg Boy, and this here is my best friend, Bathroom Girl!”

The girl’s voice was also friendly, but far less enthusiastic. “It’s nice to be here.”

“So,” Laura started, “How long have you two been friends?”

“I feel like I’ve known Bathroom Girl my whole life!” Egg Boy responded. “Eggs and Bathrooms just go together, like socks and shoes, peanut butter and jelly, chocolate pudding and ham…”

“Hold it, hold it!” Bob cried, “Junior, Laura, this is some kind of prank, right? Kids, what are you real names?”

“Bathroom Girl.” Bathroom Girl responded. “And he’s Egg Boy. Did we need to work on sounding more clear for the audience?”

“I know my accent can be a bit tricky.” Egg Boy sighed.

Bob sighed. “We got the two of you involved to ask real questions to real kids with real answers. Can you at least bring in someone with a real name?”

“Egg Boy is my real-”

He was cut off by Junior interrupting “And now for our next guest, Francois!”

Bob gasped, while Larry and Petunia shared a knowing look, both trying to not giggle. “Bonjour! It is tres nice to be invited to a real podcast set!”

“Welcome Francois!” Laura greeted. “Or should we say, Bienvenue?”

“You are learning!” Francois gasped. “I am tres proud!”

“I’ve been practicing too!” Junior cried excitedly. “Il pleuvait comme vache qui pisse!”

Francois raised an eyebrow curiously “But it is sunny outside.”

“I know.” Junior shrugged. “I just like saying it.”

“Now, Francois,” Laura brought things back on topic. “Today’s topic is family. Do you have any fun family stories?”

“Well, you already know my maman was adopted. Very recently. I do not know how you adopt a full grown adult, but…”

“Got anything more recent?” Junior pressed.

“Can you keep a secret?” Francois whispered, despite the fact that being on a live airing podcast meant everyone listening now and who would listen in the future would also know this secret.

Junior and Laura knew this. That didn’t stop them from cheerfully replying “Of course!!”

“My maman says I may have a step-papa soon if Bob can stop beating around the bush. I do not know what bush she is referring to, but-”

“Petunia.” Bob hissed. “Cut. Now.”

“But it’s going so well…” she tried, despite the giggles giving her away.

Larry, it seemed, was ready to jump in and put an end to the sinking ship, back on the mic. “Uhhh….that looks like all the time we have for today. Tune in next week with our next topic - magic! With a very special guest, the president of the world wide skeptics society!”

[bakuliwrites]

Hurt

Fandom: The Arcana

Characters: Lucio Morgasson, Nadia Satrinava

TW: Angst, Blood, Self-harm, Mentions of Death, Red Plague, Depression

A/N: I felt inspired by the song "Hurt" (I like the Johnny Cash version a lot, the original is by Trent Reznor from Nine Inch Nails, both are excellent versions).

I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel.

Lucio’s hand weeps red, shattered crystal embedded in his fresh wound. Even in his frailty, he has retained some amount of strength. Though maybe it’s just enough to shatter a wine glass in a temper-tantrum. Blood trickles down his wrist, drips to the silken sheets beneath, invisible droplets on his bed’s crimson hue. The stains are hardly noticeable on a mattress marred already with the consequences of his vanity. Those damned beetles had made such lovely dye. It makes sense they’d be the things to betray him. 

Lucio picks at the shards of glass still stuck in his skin. The pain, if he’s even feeling any, dulls in comparison to the anguish he feels when he looks in the mirror. He’s had them all removed from his room, so he doesn’t have to stare at the haggard, pathetic creature that gazes back at him. He doesn’t recognize that feeble figure, hunched and stiff, baggy clothes hanging off their thin frame. All vivacity leached from the stranger that leers back at him. 

I focus on the pain, the only thing that’s real.

Lucio squeezes his hand shut, watching as the blood seeps through his fingers. He relishes that tiny amount of pain. The feeling of living. Of hurting. It’s better than feeling like he’s dying, withering, wasting away. His lungs are heavy with liquid and his limbs floppy with fatigue. How is it that the great Count Lucio has been reduced to a sad, skeletal mess? Disease-ridden and decrepit?

“Your highness, should I call for Doctor Devorak?” an attendant questions as they poke their head into his bedroom. Lucio grabs the other wine glass on his bedside table and chucks it towards them. They narrowly dodge it, the glass bursting as it hits the door. Lucio is left in silence once again. Wicked, angry thoughts pummel his skull, threaten to burst through and set the room ablaze. He doesn’t want to die, but maybe it would be better than the sorry existence he’s been cursed with.

I wear this crown of thorns, Upon my liar’s chair.

He leans back. Once, the great Lucio had sat upon thrones of gold. His adoring subjects had showered him with praise and adoration. Now, he’s forced to prop himself up on sweat-stained pillows. Once, he clothed himself in furs and jewels. Now, he wears a thin, cotton nightgown that’s much too large for his withered frame. Once, Lucio had been loved. Now, he is forgotten.

He wonders if there’s anything he could have done differently in his life. Surely, this is all the doing of someone else? It’s someone else that infected him with this stupid illness. It’s his mother’s fault that he had to go to such extremes to gain the power he so rightfully deserves. If only she’d just given him his title on his eighteenth birthday, like she was supposed to. If only she’d just died, like she was supposed to. Papa did it well enough. Why couldn’t she?

Full of broken thoughts, I cannot repair.

Lucio is alone. He is hated and for what reason? Isn’t he a generous Count? A beloved, illustrious Count? He can see when Nadia, Asra, and Julian roll their eyes at him. He can hear their exasperated sighs and mocking snickers. They delight in his affliction. There’s a sparkle in their eyes, as they wait for him to shrivel up and disappear. Doesn’t anyone love him?

A soft knock on the door. Lucio ignores it, incensed and bereft. He casts a withering gaze at Nadia as she enters gracefully, her brows furrowed and forehead crinkled with concern.

“An attendant told me you were bleeding. I can send for Doctor Devorak,” she offers, her tone soft and warm. It fills Lucio unwillingly with relief. A flood of affection. Maybe someone does care about him after all. 

“Don’t bother,” he croaks, hardly recognizing his scratchy, quiet voice. Is it even his voice? Or some tragic old man’s? 

Nadia glides over to him, lips set in a frown as she sits at Lucio’s bedside and inspects his injury. She pulls bandages from a drawer that was once filled with a secret stash of alcohol and other delightful treats. Now it’s filled with first aid items, because it’s all too often that Nadia or Julian have to come to his rescue now, a thought that fills Lucio with fury and hate. 

What have I become? My sweetest friend. Everyone I know goes away, In the end.

“At least let me wrap it, so you’re not getting blood all over your sheets,” Nadia insists, gently taking Lucio’s hand and bandaging it up. He watches keenly as she slowly wraps the strips of cloth around his hand, securing them tight. His hand in hers looks so thin, so frail. If she wanted, she could probably crush his bones to powder. But she doesn’t. Her touch is gentle. She is always gentle and warm and loving. Even when Lucio is horrible. When he’s monstrous and bratty and ill-tempered. Nadia has remained, ever loyal, ever caring. 

“Thanks,” Lucio whispers. Nadia merely smiles softly, though he can see the surprise glittering in her eyes. He knows it’s not often that he appreciates her, not anymore. In their youth, when they first married, he showered her with affection, with gifts, with love. But as the years have gone on, infatuation gave way to irritation. And, as many impulsive marriages do, things broke down. Now, they sleep in separate wings. Entertain separate people. The ghost of a marriage haunts these palace halls. But even still, Nadia has always been his greatest friend. His most trusted friend. Even if she seems to hate him, she remains at Lucio’s side. While everyone else abandons him. 

And you could have it all, My empire of dirt. 

“How are my citizens?” Lucio tries, his voice raspy and dry. Nadia’s crimson gaze is stinging.

“Abysmal, my husband,” she returns gravely, “Our case numbers are increasing by the hour. The quarantine center is at maximum capacity. There are riots now, calling for a cure, begging us to do something. Dissent is imminent if we do not act fast.”

It’s only now that Lucio notices how weary his wife looks. There are dark circles under her eyes and her face is gaunt. Has she been eating? Sleeping? Her shoulders slump as they never have before. Her motions are sluggish, not elegantly languid as they typically are. This city is running her ragged. Stupid, ungrateful citizens. 

Or maybe it’s your fault, something whispers in his mind. It sends shivers up his spine. A seed of truth, planted in his brain. Has he exhausted her? Has he ruined her? A once proud, vivacious woman brought to devastation.

Parasite, echoes through his thoughts, Leached of your health. But look at what you’ve leached from her. Look at the ruin you’re leaving behind for her. A kingdom of detritus. Of despair and dust. An empire of dirt.

He imagines Nadia, left to puzzle together a city torn apart by chaos when he dies.

If I die, Lucio reminds himself, I’m Lucio Morgasson, mighty and powerful. I’ll pull through. Won’t I?

Guilt eats at his heart. Isn’t he the reason for all this? A returning thought. It keeps coming back. He keeps ruminating over it. He sees it written on Nadia’s face. Can she sense how sorry he is? He doesn’t want to say it. He shouldn’t have to say it. She should just intuitively know. She should know how sorry he feels, for her and for himself.

He reaches his golden hand up. His arm feels heavy on his shoulder. It’s never felt heavy before, but now it feels like a great weight. It takes all his effort to lift it. Gently he brushes aside a strand of her deep purple hair and tucks it behind her ear. She seems taken aback, but after a moment, leans into his caress and closes her eyes.

“Where have the days gone when we sat on the veranda together, in one another’s arms, looking out at the sunset until it gave way to the stars?” Nadia wonders wistfully. 

“We could still do that,” Lucio puts forth, his voice sounding small to his own ears. She smiles ruefully, and he knows why they can’t. Why they can never do that again.

I will let you down, I will make you hurt.

A coughing fit seizes him. Nadia leans away, but keeps her hands steady on his. He sounds disgusting, phlegmy and ailing. He can see the hesitance on Nadia’s face, sense the caution in her tense body. She leans away because he’s revolting, isn’t he? Weak and ineffectual. Not the man she married. Not the powerhouse, the stallion, the Adonis, the Count. He’s a tragic mess, barely held together by the thin skin that stretches over his protruding bones. 

“If you’re going to just sit there and gawk at me, then you can get out,” he snarls at her. He’s mortified. No one should see Lucio Morgasson like this: despairing and fragile. Not even Nadia. She merely frowns at his commentary, but remains. It infuriates him. She should leave. He doesn’t want to be seen like this. He shouldn’t be seen like this. 

“I’ll sit here, if you’d like,” she puts forth, seating herself in the permanent chair by his bedside. It appeared when he fell ill. It’ll stay there until he’s better. Or until he’s gone.

“I don’t want your company or your pity,” Lucio returns, pulling the sheets up and turning away from her. He wants her to hurt. He wants her to feel how hurt he is. When she leans away from him like that. When she thinks of how sad and pathetic he must look.

“Leave,” Lucio hisses, dissolving all tenderness in an instant. Incinerating it. A moment ago, she had loved him. She’d been gentle and tender. And then she leaned away, reminding him of how horrid she thinks he is. Nadia gives a deep sigh. When Lucio turns around again, she’s gone. And he’s alone in his room, staring up at the ceiling, wishing he hadn’t been so hurtful. Because all it’s ever gotten him is a lifetime of pain and loneliness. 

[charlesdesvoeux]

terror rewatch time!!! i'll be using this post to comment on ep. 1 "go for broke" block the tag terrorwatch2 if you'd like :-)

(instead of clogging up you guys' dash I'll just post all my little notes here under the cut):

interesting thing that crozier requests an ice report, and they could've just fetched mr. reid and given it very straightforwardly and objectively, with no fuss. but sir john decided to make it a social occasion, a dinner with the officers, which I think is a tiny but interesting way of illustrating their different priorities (even if we haven't met Crozier yet)

the chat between hickey and the boys is a nice way of introducing the class structure within the ship, and we see hickey already has ideas of questioning this very structure which of course culminate in something very interesting later on as all these boundaries of class and propriety blur as they get closer and closer to doom

"as I climbed the ladder I was thinking of caesar crossing the rubicon" james you're unbearable (affectionate)

i'm thinking about franklin's choice to get David Young to erebus when they could have just sent stanley over. is it lack of trust in Dr. MacDonald? does he not want to inconvenience stanley with having to go to another ship in the cold- instead exposing a sick boy to the cold air of the fucking arctic and dismissing the concerns both crozier and macdonald raise about what this could mean to his health? either way it means that david young died away from his friends who could have provided some comfort for him as he passed.

"after one glance from him I have to remind myself I'm not a fraud" that's exactly what made them so antagonistic to one another at first... when James sees himself through Francis' gaze he's afraid, he's afraid that his construction of the mask of Commander James FitzJames will come crumbling down. but the thing is- it HAS to. it has to come down. they have to reach the end of vanity, the end of all illusions and pretense in order to see clearly and try to survive. and the worst thing is, jfj does reach the end of vanity- but he does not survive.

"you love your men more than even god loves them" "for all our sakes let's hope you're wrong" is this the only moment of self awareness for franklin??? i can't remember any other from my first watch. sir john doesn't love them, not really- his supposed affection is frankly quite shallow and only present when it doesn't inconvenience him. it's not love, it's a performance of "love" that hits traditional beats (affability, a cheery tone etc) but is entirely hollow.

john franklin is a VALOR STEALING BASTARD

goodsir telling david young "you may be a warning of things to come".... it came true in more ways than one.... what with him having both the lead poisoning and the vision from the shaman alerting them to leave...

david young dies: no mother or father will welcome him into heaven; his sister is on the other side of the world; his friends are on the other boat. but at least he may console himself with the promise to see the passage first, and the certainty to have died for the economy.

love the visual parallel established between collins removing the ice from the propeller and goodsir removing david young's organs in the autopsy

the scene where franklin makes The Worst Call™ is so interesting in terms of the dynamic between him, crozier and fitzjames but also. he was never gonna listen to crozier. crozier doesn't fawn over him, doesn't put on the performance of reverence- he's a relentlessly practical man. it wounded franklin's pride. so even in face of what appears to be a very sensible plan he simply will not yield to crozier's judgement. and thus sir john's pride and hubris knocks down the first thing in the rube golberg machine of doom of the franklin expedition.

goooood the way hickey puts up the two fingers at tozer and then hurriedly changes it to a thumbs up. i love you ratman <3

francis' withering look at franklin in one of the last shots. jesus fucking christ

[roguelov]

Alright Rogue so I had this idea right as I was showering and had to get out to type it to you (my second attempt doing this cause I lost the first one rip) 🤧🫶💕🙈

So it's been a long, hot, and sticky day and you want nothing more than to crash and fall asleep. Yet when you walk through the door Hob/Cori/ Morpheus greets you after you settle for a bit on the couch to prop your feet up. The other two not present could be already sleeping or something

Anyways the moments pass in silence and you're losing motivation but it's so hot like why bother but Hob/Cori/Mopheus senses yoir distress and guides you to the bathroom getting all of your favorite products ready and arranging them for you while you feel the sweaty clothes clinging to your body like a second skin and then get the shower situated. Also, the shower has a glass door -this is important- because when you walk into the shower Hob/Cori/Mopheus is behind you with an expectant look a folded towels in hand waiting but know with a nod you need to be alone this time

So what is one to do? Hob/Cori/Morpheus would sit right outside the door across from the shower wither on your vanity counter or the edge of the tub admiring you from afar, book in hand and glancing up at you from time to time.

Then when you finally open the door Hob/Cori/Morpheus hands you a towel helping wrap you up, paper you a bit, fluff your hair, etc before tucking you in to bed and joining you if you wish. (Could be just you and one of the boys or you end up joining the other two who weren't there to greet you home).

Anyways there ya go! 🤪💕 I'm sorry it's a lot thats why I used the tiny font.

To think I woke up to this and this has been on my mind all day

I just imagine the somewhat shameless looking like constantly peering over and just smiling to themself because even through the steam they still know you and your body so well

But also the absolute care????? I’m dead. I’m on the ground an absolute blushing mess plagued with so many thoughts

[m-blackwell-and-associates]

A bastard's bastard. pt 2

Lillian looked at the hair in her hands. Four days after the incident and her body had stopped withering. Not quite a walking corpse, but certainly nothing that would walk in public and not cause notice. Her hair, her beautiful dark auburn hair, had continued to wither away until it became brittle and thin. Now it was the hair of an old woman standing on the edge of her grave. The nuns at school had alternately praised her for her luck and admonished her not to give into the vanity that was the sin of all women. If they could see her now, holding handfuls of faded dried up weeds.  

A knock at the door made her cry out in alarm, "No! Don't come in!" She didn't want to see anyone until she could come to terms with what she was. But someone entered anyway.

"Mother," Lillia whispered, suddenly wishing to cry. Instead, she covered her drawn and sunken face behind knobby hands. "Don't look at me!"

Catherine Rosselini came to her daughter with soothing sounds of comfort. "Oh sweetheart, don't hide from me. You're as beautiful now as you were when you were born."

Lillian choked on her mother’s good humor and obvious lie. "Newborns are ugly."

"Not to their mothers." Catherine laughed, not hesitating to put her arms around her daughter, holding the cold and stiff body tight. Desperately needing the comfort, Lillian returned the embrace still feeling tears that wouldn't fall.  Could she still cry in this state, or would she always feel stuck not being able to purge what was in her heart?

"What do I do now?" she whispered into her mother’s shoulder, only just now realizing she was dressed for a formal evening. Count Rossellini was hosting his own descendants tonight at the family gathering, an invitation that Catherine had coveted more than anything, finally getting to mingle with the greatest of her relations.  Lillian backed away hastily, less her changed countenance somehow stain the dress.  She felt filthy in this condition, still smelling the canal water that had flooded that pit and wondered if, like her missing tears, if she’d ever feel clean again.

"You put on the dress I brought you and you hold your head up high and you remind everyone that you have been triply blessed this year. And when that poor excuse of a father of yours hosts the Milliners at the end of the week as the youngest family, you'll attend that one too and remind every one of those ignorant Yankees exactly what you bring to the table."

"Why'd you do it?"

"Do what, honey?"

"Sleep with dad if you hate him so much?"

Catherine looked thoughtful, smoothing back the thin scant wisps of hair that still graced Lillian’s head. "Because it was the price of my independence, darling. And besides, it brought me you and your little brothers and I didn't have to chain myself to some fat lugard of a man for the rest of my life. You," she kissed Lillian's cheek. "Were entirely worth putting up with that dithering ass. And this," she kissed Lillian's other cheek. "Has made every insult worth it. My precious daughter given the Kiss just hours after the Milliners were formally included in the family. By one of the elders no less. It is very possible you are closer in blood to Uncle Ambrogino than you are to your father!"

The way her mother laughed, it was clearly the crow of triumph.  It was apparently a mark of status to have a close family be….whatever she was now.  Whatever status Catherine had gained by having Old Man Milliner’s bastards had somehow increased by her literal falling in with Mathias. 

"How...how did you know to send me there? To the well? How did you know there'd be family there?"  Lillian tried to forget the screams of the people they pushed in - Frances’ wife and all his descendants, by blood or by marriage, that had refused to bend a knee to the horror that was the Giovanni.  It was Frances’ proof of loyalty, that everyone walking would be bound, one way or another, to the family business.  She had already heard the servants gossiping on the haggling being done over the newly widowed and who would take them of Frances’ hands.

Again that thoughtful look as if Catherine was considering the events and if the story could be told. "My uncle married outside of the family. She was an only child, an heiress to use the old fashion term, so it was permitted.  There wouldn't be anyone to challenge the inheritance or any of her own family she could run to if she....discovered any of the family business. It was eventually discovered she had been having an affair. He couldn't divorce her and risk losing any of the estate, or her taking the one child he knew for sure was his, so he demanded that Count Rossellini do something. And so he did. My uncle's wife, her lover, and their children were all pushed into the well. We were all brought to watch as a reminder that one doesn't betray the family."

It was said so casually that Lillian felt colder than she had been, staring at her mother in something akin to shock.  “And…and no one thought her death suspicious?”

“It's easy to fake a drowning death in Venice, my dear.  What was left of the bodies showed up in the lagoon eventually.  A boat accident was to blame.”

"Did you...expect this to happen to me?"  Lillian pressed withered hands to her sunken cheeks.

"Absolutely not! Nothing from that pit has ever created a childe, not by any family story I've ever heard. I sent you to follow our cousins because I wanted you to know that there were resources here that you could make use of. If you needed them."

[ruki--mukami]

Nunnally was looking at herself in the mirror. Her hair falling down on her back, a shy smile on her lips. She liked what she was seeing, more than she wanted to admit. Perhaps she was not only smart but pretty after all? She took a single rose out of the vase that was placed on a small table close to the mirror. She smelled it and laughed quietly, more to herself than to anyone else.

That was how Ruki found her when he entered her room. She smiled upon his entrance still holding a flower in her hands.

“Ruki…” – she said happily looking at him – “You will not believe what happened in school today.” – she smelled the flower again – “A boy asked me out! I don’t know him, he’s not from my class, but he came to me during the lunch period and told me I am beautiful and he’d like to take me out for a date…and gave me this rose...” – Nunnally’s eyes were glowing, sparks of happiness inside them – “Can you believe it Ruki? He said I am beautiful. No one had ever told me that!”

“You included…!” – she thought…

Looking at Ruki, Nunnally was not sure she did right telling him that. But it was not that she wanted to meet that boy at all.

“I of course declined.” – she stated calmly and truthfully – “But he said he’s not giving up. He said he would come tomorrow with another rose and will be coming every day until I say ‘yes’. It’s quite romantic, isn’t it? Or maybe even poetic… But also silly. Do you think he’ll try to steal a kiss from me? That would not be good, though. I would need to slap him, but causing commotion at school is not advisable.”

Nunnally thought for a moment but said nothing more. Although she thought it could be nice, if he tried to steal a kiss. But not succeed of course. She truly did not want him to succeed. His words made her vanity flourish but nothing more. He did make her feel beautiful. Probably for the first time in her life.  She neither needed or wanted anything more. She did not even want to see him again.

"I think I should not see him again. It would be wrong."

(in need for jealous/fluff Ruki)

“Ah, is that so…? He thinks you’re beautiful, then. How lovely for the two of you to get along so well,” sarcasm laced his voice like venom. “For someone who declined his confession, you sure look happy about it. I believe it’s time you wipe that smug expression off your face, Nunnally. It doesn’t suit you at all. People who profess their fondness over whims like physical attraction should just grow up already. A pretty face can only get you so far… and to amount to nothing more than ‘beautiful’ will harm more than benefit you in the end. In that sense, gifting you a rose is awfully fitting.”

Confiscating the flower without warning, Ruki glared at its intricately woven petals, curled into crimson pulchritude. Despite its prickly stem, the Vampire soon crushed the bloom in his bare hands, crumbling the once graceful flower into mere confetti as each piece descended to the floor in tatters when he released his fingers. It almost feigned the spectacle of blood seething from between his digits, delicate and slender. Letting the pedicel fall after its petals, he simply cackled at the sight of the ruined rose, torn and destroyed as he hoped her anticipation for this supposed suitor would also perish. 

“Indeed, it may appear beautiful at first glance, but it shall wither away in due course—just as any semblance of attraction he has towards you. If you find this vain gesture ‘romantic,’ then I highly suggest reconsidering your role in this manor. He did not send you here to play lovey-dovey with your classmates, nor did he advise you to let your guard down during your stay. Furthermore… I don’t appreciate how many openings you leave for others to take advantage of you. But since you wish to drown in your own hubris until it suffocates you, then allow me to hasten the job.”

Two hands clawed into the seams of her shoulders until they unraveled, much like the rose on the floor, revealing the porcelain skin of her shoulders. Fangs bared, scowl exacerbated, Ruki dove for a vehement bite that pierced like a bloom’s thorns into the exquisite adipose. The petals of blood followed suit in small rivulets, adorning her flesh bright carmine as he fed. Several punctures came after, since the Vampire never lingered in one spot for too long, almost as if ensuring he wrote his name on one of his belongings with his teeth to deter other suitors from even stealing a glance at what belonged to him. First, her left shoulder, then the base of her jugular, and finally down her forearm. It was dizzying, it was enthralling, it was utterly glorious all at the same time when collecting her delectable nectar. An ambrosial ichor clouded his enraged thoughts as he withdrew, observing the red-stained canvas.

Visibly proud, at long last, he smirked. 

“You are, in fact, beautiful. Especially when you bleed for me, Nunnally… Red really is your color, you know. Those streaks of blood... Those gashes on you, inflicted by none other than your master. Bleed only for me,” he wiped his besmirched lips with the back of his hand. “Do you understand now…? You’re mine. Test my patience again and I shall love punishing you.”

[quill-pen]

So I saw this gif while looking for gifs yesterday and just had to post and talk about it... AND BESS AND EBENEZER, OF COURSE.

IT'S HEADCANNON TIME, PEEPS!🤘

Idk what this gif is from, but I'm guessing the flower is in place of a wedding ring? And it just got me thinking: Ebenezer never gets Bess an engagement ring.

For various reasons their engagement is impromptu and rushed and lasts two months at most (maybe not even that long). And in that time everything is about the wedding planning and Ebenezer fighting to try and make sure at least some of the preparations are what Bess wants. (At this point, Bess is just so done and strung-out from dealing with her mother's family, she really has no bite left.) So it goes without say, an official engagement ring is the last thing on Eb's or Bess' mind, especially when there's already a wedding ring itself to be designed, never mind the dress! (Because, damn it all, if Bess can't get her perfect wedding day with her dream man (because he has no idea that man is actually him yet), she's at least going to get her perfect ring and her dream dress as long as Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge has any say in the matter!)

Now, Ebenezer is a proper gentleman, and he likes and understands the importance of tradition. So, much later on, after the wedding and after true feelings come to light, Eb probably asks Bess if she ever felt put out over not really having an engagement period and if she'd like to have an engagement ring despite already married. Bess of course assures him that, no, she wasn't upset about it (other things, sure, but not that) and, no, she doesn't need one. What would she do with it since she already has the wedding ring? Keep it in the box on her vanity to look at? (😉"Wolf, I only partially married you for your money, remember?" Oh, she's a cheeky lass, this one.) So no engagement ring is ever purchased.

BUT I can so see Ebenezer doing this: weaving rings out of little flowers he finds wherever he/they go and giving them to her. Walking down the street and there's a frail little flower poking up through the cobbles? It's going to die there, and should be granted one final blessing of residing on Bess's finger before it withers away. They're out on a picnic or a walk in the park or the countryside and there are wildflowers all around them? Eb will spend an unreasonable amount of time deciding what kind is prettiest and would look best on his wife's hand. Sometimes, he'll manage to weave more than one together so it's almost like a little mini-flower-crown sitting on Bess's ring finger.

For a while, the man gave her a flower ring every day--sometimes several throughout the day. Their gardener more or less put a stop to that, as Ebenezer was kind of wrecking havoc on the back garden and flowerbeds and pots around the house. Now he'll only take from there on occasion (typically whenever the first flower of each type blooms). The gardener still isn't thrilled about this but he also knows it's a bit of a losing battle. Besides, Eb pays well; he'd be an idiot to cross such a fine employer, particularly over something connected with said employer's wife.

Ironically enough, Ebenezer has never given Bess a ring made from her favorite flower: bluebells. He knows she wouldn't like watching them wilt and die away on her hand. She'd much rather enjoy them as they're meant to be: attached to the soil, living and growing and wilting and blossoming again after a long slumber--thriving through their natural cycle as they're meant to. So no bluebell flower rings or bouquets for Dearest and Best Wifey. Potted versions or seeds for the gardener to plant though? Absolutely!👍🏻

Honestly though, as adorable and sweet as the idea of Ebenezer taking the time to meticulously weave a flower ring (and sometimes even more carefully choose the flowers to do it with) is, my absolute favorite part of the headcannon? HE PROPOSES TO HER ALL OVER AGAIN EVERY TIME. DOWN ON ONE KNEE AND EVERYTHING. And he always makes a little speech about how much he loves her and wants to spend the rest of his life with her and how happy and loved she makes him feel and how even more happy and blessed he would be if he could continue being her husband and how he will always strive to make her feel as happy and loved as he does and to be the best possible man he's capable of being for her. A little excessive, perhaps, but, to be fair, there wasn't much of a proposal the first time around. (How did it go then? Wouldn't you like to know?😏 A writer must have some secrets, folks!🤫).

And of course Bess gets all flustered and giggly and tongue-tied, because how could she not? She has the absolute sweetest, handsomest, most loving, and most charming hubby ever! So she usually has to just nod her answer, but of course she accepts every time! And then she'll stroll around happily bearing her sweet smelling "re-engagement ring" for as long as it lasts. No, Bess doesn't feel like she missed out on the engagement stage at all, and she certainly doesn't care about never having a ring to mark it. (Engagement rings don't mean much in her experience anyway--they're just a pretty "maybe later" with no real commitment to back them up.) Besides, she's walking into all the engagement parties and weddings they're invited to on the arm of the world's most wonderful man, her perfect wedding ring on her finger, and a freshly woven, little flower ring nestled right beside it. (Because you best believe hopeless-romantic Eb was going to remind her how he wants to remain hers forever as they're going to help another couple celebrate their choice to make the same commitment.) How could she possibly fuss over what she didn't have? Look at everything she does have!

(Ebenezer better be careful, more than a few bride-to-bes and other ladies have absolutely fawned over Bess's cute little flower rings and become enamored with the idea of having ones themselves. I don't think flower ring weaving is a skill too many men possess: Eb will either have to face the wrath of annoyed suitors and husbands or else start up a flower ring side business. Bob could definitely help him--he's got massive flower ring weaving energy.)

[for-me-to-live-is-christ]

To Avoid Vanity of Ownership

Oh heavenly Father, who has created all things, you have given us dominion over much of your creation. I have taken this for granted, oh my God, until it seems to be my entitlement. Yet, it is not. The things of this earth and even my own body will not be mine forever, or even for much longer. One day soon my soul will be naked of every possession. They were given to me, and they will be taken from me. “From dust my body was born, and unto dust it shall return.”

Grant me always a sense of eternity when seeking possessions, when dealing with possessions, and especially steer me away from pride of ownership. For it is a temporary thing, and filled with sinful pride, to think that I am elevated by what I possess: my money, my house, my appearance, my intelligence, my achievements—for all are things of this world.

Turn my mind always to eternity and inhabit the forefront of my mind with the only true and enduring possessions I have: Your love, your grace, and your mercy. “The grass withers, the flower fades: but the word of our God shall stand for ever.” In Christ’s name I pray,

Amen.

[laurestcphens]

send SCOLDED for a scene from my muse's past in which someone told them off, justifiably or not

(@sntsnoialles also wanted this prompt)

The gracious smile remains frozen on her face long after she leaves the small room where the Council met. Going into the meeting, the idea of being rejected hadn't even crossed Laure's mind. Had she been more clear-minded, she would have seen it coming from a mile away. Had it been anyone else, Laure would have made the same decision.

But none of that sinks into her mind, even as she returns to her home at Westriver. Her late wife's possessions are still spread about the house, like she just went on a short trip and would be back soon.

Even in their bedroom, Kiri's side of the bed remains untouched, as though she can preserve the shape of her silhouette in the mattress. Pictures of their life together decorate the nightstand, her dresser, as well as the vanity that takes up one end of the room.

Laure sits in front of the mirrors, the Council's words echoing in her ears.

'...concerned about you.'

'...sure that this is what Kiri would want?'

'...not befitting of a Council member.'

No.

The singular word it all boiled down to. They could pretend they were worried or look down on her for still loving her wife three years later, but they still refused her.

Her fingers tremble as she pulls out the small ornate box that sits in the vanity drawer. Tortoiseshell inlaid with ivory, a delicate coffin for the only piece of her wife that remains. Her finger has withered away to bone now, blanched clean but meticulously cared for. As Laure stares down at it, she thinks of all of the preparations she's already made, of how close she is to finally having Kiri back in a way.

A simple no would not deter her. Not for something as important as this.

[foragingstamps]

untitled#33

sometimes, art feels like a guttral scream into a ravenous void. eating every word, and burping every hope; dizzied and drowsy from every voice. we are attempting to express the obvious, or the hidden, or the smitten, in a palatable, tangible fashion. viewers chew, they do, but they regurgitate and spit the food. know only the flavour, but not the nutrition; make room for more automatic, ceaseless, and doped, decisions. it as though you have forgotten every syllable and stutter of the paintbrush and the pen. so pretty; so superficial. you hear me, but are you paying attention? you have read the cries, and you have memorised the lines, but do you understand the symbols and my signs? do you see through my riddle; can you recognise the repeating and the screaming sigils? we are all yelling and i cannot hear anything but the buzz, and the buzz of a bee, and i duck my head because im so afraid of being stung. i have never looked at the flowers. take one thing, and understand it for the other; put it down and pick it up if you're ever feeling better. to what logic are we tethered other than the closing of our shutters; taking peeks of truth and blinded by the light, and taking little pain as one great might, and shutting it all out of our sight. numb it. scroll. scroll again. put it down, pick it up, scroll again. move from mindless distraction to mindless distraction; so much movement with very little action. but are you listening? is the apathy not sickening? how long will i last, withering, always bent towards the ground; to technology im lingering and escape from reality we are conditioning. no seedling sprout has survived looking anywhere but the sun; growing trust in the chance of more confident tomorrows; nurturing resistance from dooming, fatal sorrows.

if a meteor came to take our fates, we wouldn't see it with the crane of our necks towards the sky, but in a crane towards our screens and our feet and the dirt—the place of our demise. our body's dialect speaks for our crimes, and for the sand in the hourglass that is always losing time. і can spout every language from my tongue like stars from nebulae but you will only see vanity that dulls the mind. a tomb is comfortable because it is the last place you'll ever lie; an uninterrupted slumber that erupts into new life—every existence only but the former's dream, and every destiny is truly but absurdity. this tomb is comfortable because you mustn't move; mustn't do. we have made ourselves into our beds, wound our heads into the sheets and the pillows and watched the mirage of a world without ever truly witnessing it. a dream within a dream; an escape within a hallucination. i will be here waiting; not quite sure what for, but endlessly discovering novel ways our world's been scorned. the foundation is being torn, and we are so preoccupied with inspecting every little crack that we will never suspect its widening attack. down, down, down; into a chasm full of frowns. victims and undoings and consequences ensuing; angry, irritated, fuming. point a finger, avoid the news, find something else to consume. maybe i'll see you again, one scroll away, soon.

[carolinemillerbooks]

New Post has been published on Books by Caroline Miller

New Post has been published on https://www.booksbycarolinemiller.com/musings/consciousness-of-the-third-kind/

Consciousness Of The Third Kind

A young television commentator recently dissed Joe Biden’s chances of winning reelection in 2024. Barely old enough to qualify as a voter, she had no qualms about her prediction. She explained the President risked losing young voters because he defended Israel’s war on Gaza. He was reaching into the past for political solutions, she said, instead of analyzing the future. What she failed to credit the President in his first term of office with were policies that benefited youth–extending their medical and mental health services; pardoning their marijuana transgressions; strengthening civil and voting rights for minorities and the LGBTQ population; struggling to give citizenship to Dreamers, and for having done his damndest to reduce student college debt.  Not an exhaustive list, but it should prove the “old man” has pulled his weight on behalf of succeeding generations. Of course, only a fool expects the young to be grateful.  Barefoot boys and girls with cheeks of tan seldom are. As chicks newly hatched from their shells, they imagine the world exists to praise them. I recall Mark Zuckerberg’s views when he was in his late twenties. Stuffed into his signature tee shirt and standing before an auditorium filled with his peers, his glib understanding of the scheme of things was that older folks weren’t as smart as younger ones.  Now that he approaches the brink of 40, I wonder what he might say to his younger self if he could. “Sader and wiser,” would seem to be appropriate words.    As for the commentator who was ready to trash Biden’s bid for a second term, her disrespect for history was wanton.  Doubtless a smart cookie, she’d never argue the past had no influence on the present. Vicerally, however, she gave the connection little credence.  If she had followed her thought to its conclusion, she’d have discovered what she feared about  Biden was his experience and knowledge. Like other critics, she also hints that the President, in his eighties, might die during a second term. It’s happened before.  Abraham Lincoln, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, and John F. Kennedy died in office. So did five others. Even so, several heads of state have governed into their nineties, Queen Elizabeth among them.  As far as I know, there are no rules about the appropriate age to die.  At 87, I’ve shed tears for numerous former students.   What’s more, it might surprise this young journalist to know that people reach the peak of happiness and self-confidence in their sixties and beyond. The reason is simple. They’ve learned to enjoy what they have and don’t confuse elation with happiness–a distinction that escapes younger generations and fills them with the fear of never having enough.   We can thank the brain’s amygdala for the disparity.   Ruler of our emotions, It slows down as we grow older. Eventually, Wangnerian-like passions wither, allowing the mature brain to take pleasure in connecting with others. More importantly, once rid of dross like status-seeking, self-aggrandizement, and competition, we arrive at the distillation of self.    When vanity falls away like molted feathers, we can peer into the heavens unencumbered.  Simply put, we enter a state, not of innocence, but of knowing.  Call it consciousness of the third kind.   Don’t hate me when I say I pity the young.  To be honest, I’m embarrassed I needed 87 years to pass before I grasped the difference between the sweet bird of youth and my inner child.  If only I’d have listened earlier to the poet.  He got it right.  The child is father of the man.