#valerian is having the worst time of his fucking life

[ars0nism]

something about writing a couple who loathe each other as much as they still love each other. something tore them apart years ago and they havent healed, how could they, they were apart the whole time, but then they reenter each other's lives and they want to fix it, they really do, but every attempt at fixing it just makes it worse, every "maybe this time we can get back together" ends in a fight and its over, really, but maybe its not. sometimes while fixing something you end up cutting yourself on the pieces or whatever

[ofviolentdeath]

30 Days of Drabbles::Day 2

Character(s)::Conri and Fiadh Word Count:: 689 @babyitsmagic look, one that’s not going to shatter your heart!

                                                                       ~*~

The sun was warm against his skin as he leaned back, relaxed for the first time in what felt like decades. Years of living out of crappy motels on good nights and sleeping in trees on the bad had really given Conri a different kind of appreciation for the life that he had somehow found himself in.

Sure, there were still some kinks to work out. He hadn't quite forgiven Fiadh, or even Ren, for killing his mother but at least he had gotten to a point where he understood the necessity of it. Seamas and Alucard were all the reason he had really needed and, he had to admit, they had been right. His mother wouldn't have stopped with him.

"If this is your idea of doing yard work, we might have to trade who does what around here," Fiadh teased as she dropped down beside him the grass and handed him a beer.

He accepted the drink and saluted her with it before gesturing at the yard. "Dunno what you're talking about. I cut the grass."

"Most people rake the leaves first. This looks like you threw confetti fucking everywhere."

"I'll have you know that this is better for the bees and the butterflies."

Fiadh snorted at that, elbowing him sharply, a satisfied smirk settling on her lips when he nearly toppled over. "Since when are you all Mister Conservationist?"

Conri had the good grace to look offended as he righted himself and dusted some of the shredded leaves from his elbow. "Since when do you know big words like conservationist?"

"Probably around the time I became smarter than you."

Had they still been kids, he might have tackled her for that jab. He had once, back when they hadn't been engaged, when they were just pups without a care in the world. Before Con's uncle was run off and they both began to see just how dangerous their home was.

Some part of him missed the kids they had been once.

"Think you've always been smarter than me. I don't think I'd have made it this far in life if you weren't," he admitted, the playfulness gone from his tone. "Or Seamas for that matter."

"Yeah, well, after you tried to pick up where Tiern left off, one of us had to listen to survival instinct. I swear, you have the worst sense of self-preservation of any wolf I have ever met coupled with the most idiotically impressive luck."

"Is that last bit about Ren?" He figured it was given who and what Ren was and how he had met the man.

"No," Fiadh answered, pressing a hand to her chest in feigned shock. "Of course not. I'm talking about the other serial killer you shacked up with. Of course I'm talking about Ren, you absolute dumbass. How in the hell do go from "this guy is stalking me and might kill me" to dating him? I still haven't figured that one out. Not that I'm complaining, promise, he's not...awful? Once he stops threatening you with knives."

He knew she had a point but he still hadn't quite figured it out himself.

"To be fair, he might still kill me. And you. I think Seamas is safe because of Alucard and maybe Valerian and Starla. Which, for the record, Valerian should be a bigger concern to you than Ren."

"Oh believe me, I can worry plenty about both. Do you really think Ren might still kill you at this point?"

Conri shrugged at that before sighing and shaking his head. It was still a thought some nights, but deep down, he didn't actually believe it anymore. Especially after Ren had gone above and beyond to keep Fiadh alive and safe when he hadn't been obligated to. Conri still appreciated that, even if he hadn't quite found the words to tell him yet.

"Good. I would have thought you dumber than usual if you still believed that," Fiadh said as she reached a hand out to ruffle his hair. "Now, if I were you, I'd clean the yard up a little better while the sun's still out."

[larissaligus]

Interview with John Frusciante on February 24, 2001 (The Invisible Moment, part 5)

John says we can’t view his new album as a diary of what happened to him the last few years. At least not of what was visible to the outside world. 'This album is about everything that happened deep inside of me.’ Record opener Going Inside is a good example, John thinks. 'That song is about the value of doing nothing. Because the older you get, the greater the pressure to make something out of your life. You have to study, to be creative, to work, to be social, to make money, to be successful'.For society, you have to improve constantly, especially in America. I don’t care about that. I’m at a point where I discovered the value and advantage of complete emptiness. I’ve found satisfaction in things as elementary as sitting down. Letting the world pass me by. Going Inside, to see what’s down there. Drugs helped me with that, yes.’

In the meantime, John might be clean, but he doesn’t rule out that he will use some again in the future. 'But in a different manner. I look forward to doing nothing for a year and not to worry about money. Or about what others think about me. You see, to enter yourself is not visible to others; that’s what makes it hard. Others think you are doing nothing. But I see it as a way to meditate. Devoting my life to tripping my head out. Without sometimes having those periods of emptiness, I wouldn’t be able to do what I’m doing now. What I did on Californication, I wouldn’t have been able to do without the years that came before it.’

THAT THOSE PERIODS OF EMPTINESS CAN GO COMPLETELY WRONG, is something John has experienced too. During the Paradiso-concert, during one of his talks between songs, he pointed out that he once was dead for some time’. So to say. And after that he just had his rebirth. 'How can I explain' The elements that make me who I am, the spirits that sum up to the vitality that’s usually within me, weren’t there for some time. Nine months, to be precise. That number makes the illusion of rebirth even prettier [laughs]. It was 1997. Worst time of my life. I just wasn’t there. I was nothing. If someone addressed me as John Frusciante, I felt like a con. If someone reminded me of something I made in the past, my first solo-record for example, it was like I was talking about the work of a stranger. I didn’t exist. I had become an empty place of my own.’

How it went down exactly, John doesn’t remember, but eventually he came back to life. 'That was a process of about three months. I slowly started to feel regular feelings and sensations again. I remember I used to write an awful lot in that period. Notebooks and notebooks. And I used to dance a lot. But from the inside, maybe. I probably did nothing that was of any value to an outsider, maybe not even something visible, but slowly I could become John Frusciante again. Shortly after that I ended up in a rehabilitation clinic, and I got better physically too. The stars finally aligned.’

The time for the interview is over. One final question: Whether drugs, in whatever way, still played a role in John’s life. 'No. I still look for the kick, but now through other means. Innocent, natural things. For example, I take valerian. Most people fall asleep when they take that, I get fucked up. But there’s one big difference with the past, when I got in that state with heroine: I feel good when I get up the next morning. And you can talk to me all day.’

HE'S

REMARKABLE

The message that John Frusciante explicitly allows recordings of his shows, clearly had reached the Paradiso-audience, as became clear seeing many spectators with cameras and audio-equipment. Their recordings may not bring in much because of that, but the people will be careful with them, because this was a special show. Frusciante might come across way more shy than his charismatic bandmembers of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, but when he’s alone on stage with his acoustic guitar, he turns out to be a captivating and liberating personality that loves to make contact with his audience. He chatters between all songs, and answers the questions he can hear. After about six songs, he encourages his audience to make requests, which he will keep playing for the rest of the show. When he doesn’t know how the rest of the song exactly went, he just tries it again. The request to play Under The Bridge, he doesn’t find appropriate for the moment, after which he spontaneously explained it’s a rip off of David Bowie’s Andy Warhol, which he plays ad hoc in his totality. The transition to the refrain turns out to be copied form T-Rex, which he makes clear moments later. A lot of covers pass in review, but of course he also plays a lot of his own songs. Frusciante has huge technical capabilities, but he doesn’t always seem to care about them. What he sings and plays is not at all times right, but it is extraordinarily intense. His songs are melancholic and even sad, and not accessible to everyone. When he sings and talks about something, he is open and honest, and together with his eager speeches, it makes for a very personal show during which everybody is hanging upon his lips. He does encores until he’s not allowed anymore, and after that, he goes and talks with the people in the audience. He uncovers himself from all mysteries, until you clearly see who he is: a very wayward artist, upright and admirable.

[destiniesfic]

132 Hours, Chapter 8:

“Are you scared of me?”

He lets out a nervous little laugh. “Are you decent?”

Previous

Note: There’s a bit of mature 🔞 content in this chapter. This fic is rated E on AO3 for a reason, so please keep that in mind. Thank you!

Read chapter 8 on AO3, or read below:

Heat steals over me slowly, like fog rolling in from the ocean overnight. I have a hard time falling asleep because it hovers at the edge of my senses; a tension headache pressing at the front of my skull, the flipping of my stomach, all compounded by the aching of my injured leg. I toss and turn a little, but not much, because with Cardan next to me there isn’t much room, and I don’t really want to kick him and alert his attention.

His sleep is also restless. I’ll hear his breathing even out, and then he’ll jerk awake, suddenly, with a little startled sound, his elbow brushing my arm, the mattress shifting under him. I didn’t think someone like him would be prone to nightmares, but I guess our situation would test anyone’s psyche. A couple of days ago I would have asked, resentfully, what Cardan would even have nightmares about, but I am learning that his life is not nearly as charmed as it seems.

We must manage to sleep sometime in the early morning hours, and it is then that my heat breaks. I know it’s begun when I wake up. The room is pregnant with it, in the same way the air grows heavy and humid just before a lightning strike. I am aware of every part of my body in a way I usually try not to be: the muscles of my thighs tensing; the prickly three-day hair growth under my armpits; sweat collecting between my breasts; an urgent cramping in my lower belly that I know—with dismay—is ovarian, not uterine; a desperate, disastrous need layered in with it all.

And I am aware of Cardan.

He is fast asleep. I know that for certain, even without listening to the rhythm of his breathing, because he would never be doing this if he weren’t. He’s wrapped himself around me like a boa constrictor, an arm clamped over my waist, a leg slung over my thigh. His hand rests on the sliver of exposed skin where my tank top has hiked up, and his palm seems to burn cold. His lips press against the crown of my head in the mockery of a kiss, his sleep-breath ruffling my hair.

Part of him, however, is very much awake, unmistakably pressed up against my ass, and although I have never handled one of those on purpose I am not so ignorant or inexperienced as to not know what’s going on.

For a moment I feel as though I have left my body entirely, suspended in a weightless space between desire and panic. After that, his hand slides a little further up under the fabric of my shirt and there is nothing I want more than for him to touch me, to cup my breast, to let his fingers slide under the waistband of my shorts. And I think, Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

And I think, What if we get it over with?

But there is no “getting it over with,” because if we start we won’t stop, not for days, not until my heat runs its course and his rut burns away. And, with a flash of shame, with a clench in my stomach, I remember Valerian trying to pin my arms and his sour breath against my cheek as he asked me the same question. Why not get it over with? “Omegas are good for one thing,” he said. “You don’t seem to have figured that out yet.” My heartbeat rabbiting in my chest as for one terrible second I wondered if he was right.

“Cardan,” I whisper. Yesterday I had kicked him awake, but I am too frozen now even for that.

Cardan groans sleepily into my hair. His grip around my waist tightens and his hips press harder against mine and my mind completely whites out at the deep throb of dreadful want that responds. I take a deep breath, count to three, and force myself to reach back and pinch him.

I feel the moment he wakes, because every part of him stiffens. Well, every part that wasn’t already stiff.

“Shit,” he breathes, and he scrambles off of me and across the room so quickly that I am forced to wonder whether he was even there, even as I feel his invisible handprint on my waist.

I roll onto my back. Cardan is now once again in what I’ve come to think of as “his corner.” Although I try not to look at his groin, my eyes seem drawn there, and his jeans are very tight, but out of embarrassment or shame or something else he has arranged his legs so that I can’t see and tugs his loose shirt down.

“So,” he says. “Uh. Morning.”

I don’t know what to say. My mouth feels like a desert. Images of—of all things—prairies at the height of the Dust Bowl that had been printed in one of my middle school history textbooks flash across my mind. Maybe I am delirious.

“It’s started,” I manage.

“Yeah, I got that.” Cardan gestures vaguely, at himself, at the room. He is in sharp focus for me in a way that nothing else is. A rivulet of sweat trickles down his neck. I want to lick it.

I am astonished that he can just sit there in his corner, although he seems more closed-off than usual. I can vaguely recall my first heat and the urge to act, even if I was too miserable to do much and I didn’t know what I wanted to do. Now I know exactly what it is that I want to do. And the pheromones rolling off of me should be sending him into a rut, and alpha ruts are supposed to be a basically unstoppable force. Before suppressants, terrible things would happen if an omega was caught out in an unexpected heat with alphas around. When we woke up I thought his had been triggered, based on the erection and now the sweat. But he’s in his corner, and he isn’t coming closer.

I must really repulse him if he can resist it like that. Normally, this would just irritate me. Now, I want to yell. I want to cry.

“I...” I begin, but then I am hit with another cramp and a chill settles under my skin. Evolutionarily speaking, the purpose of heat is to mate, and there’s logic to making my life unpleasant if I don’t do that, to ensure survival of the species. Everything goes slightly sideways and makes me a little cold-blooded; if an alpha were here to help me regulate my temperature, I would be fine. But my body has caught onto the fact that Cardan is across the room instead of pressed up against me and it says Hey, no, that’s what we want, as if it can decide those things unilaterally. And its main method of protest is to set everything on fire.

I can relate.

As the fever blooms, so does the sensitivity in my every nerve. I feel the underwire of my bra digging into my ribs, the stiffness of my denim shorts and the tickling of stray threads where they have been intentionally distressed. With an urgent gasp, I unzip my sweatshirt and pull it off before reaching up under the back of my tank.

“What are you doing?” Cardan asks, panicked.

I struggle with the clasp of my bra for another second before unhooking it and slipping my arms out of the straps. I pull it out from under my tank top and fling it across the room like it might bite me. “It fucking hurts,” I say between clenched teeth. I start on the button of my shorts.

Cardan covers his face with one large hand. “These are really mixed signals you’re giving off, um, right now. Are you getting naked? Please don’t be naked. I don’t know what’ll happen.”

There’s a waver in his voice that keeps him from sounding aloof and sarcastic. I sit up to slide my shorts down my legs and toss them beside my bra, then put my sweatshirt back on and pull the blanket back up. It’s scratchy, but I have to get warm. “Not naked.” I pause. “Are you scared of me?”

He lets out a nervous little laugh. “Are you decent?”

“Yeah.”

But I am watching his fingers closely as he lowers them from his face. My tongue wets my dry lips, and I wish they were his. Then there’s another cramp, and I feel—oh no. I feel the worst thing of all, because it feels like I’ve wet myself, when really it’s an entirely different category of bodily fluid. My underwear is soaked.

I’m glad I took off my shorts, I think deliriously. It would be such a pain to get this out of denim.

In this terrible moment, I am unable to believe that I have ever hated Cardan. Just looking at him is an experience as visceral as being punched in the gut. I look at his mouth and my lips tingle with the thrill of imagining how a kiss would feel. I look at his long fingers and press my thighs together to stop phantom versions of them from slipping inside of me. I am incoherent with want, absolutely stupid with it, and the last remaining shred of my sanity is the only thing keeping me from crawling over to him and stripping off his shirt.

That and the absolute mortification, because it feels like my entire body clenches again and another rush of fluid follows. I let out an involuntary whimper; my face burns hot with shame. At least he can’t see what’s going on down there with my legs under the blanket. I don’t know what he can smell.

“I’m gonna—” Cardan begins, his eyes darting around the room for some kind of solution to our problem. “I’m— I can’t stay in here.”

I make myself nod. Of course he can’t. As much as I am slowly being consumed by base instincts, I am still here, and the part of me that is me understands that. He can’t stay in here, because something will happen, and he doesn’t want—neither of us want—anything to happen. Of course.

“But we can’t let them in here,” he says, under his breath. “I can’t let them get you. So. Okay.” He nods. “Right. Okay. I’m gonna come over there for like two seconds. Don’t move or do anything or— okay?”

“Okay,” I say. I don’t even think about what it means that I’m going along with what he says. I’m just glad one of us has a plan.

Cardan draws a breath, steeling himself, and crawls over to me. It isn’t very far. I make myself look up at the ceiling so I can’t check whether he’s still hard and pretend to ignore him, even though I can’t not be hyper aware of his presence. He pauses at the side of the mattress and takes another breath.

“Right,” he says. “Sit up for a second.”

I do. To my surprise, he adjusts my pillow, then reaches beyond it to get the one he’d slept on. He moves to put it under my head, then says, “Oh, shit, wait, your leg,” and changes his mind, moving down the mattress to prop my left foot up on it. Then he asks me to lie back down and begins tucking both blankets around me, fitting them tightly to my body.

“We have to like, smother it, right?” he says. There’s a manic quality to his voice, like he’s on the verge of babbling. “We can’t let them smell you. So if we trap the smell in the blankets, maybe…”

“That’s smart,” I say.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Although I’m afraid it’s also useless at this point. The stale air in here is already saturated with both of our scents. Cardan’s is muskier than usual today, cocoa and earth and… I break out in a fresh round of sweat, but my body also calms down a little at having him nearer, at the possibility that something might happen.

He pauses when he tucks the blankets around my shoulders, his eyes, dark as black coffee, finding mine. If I look closely enough, I can tell where his irises end and his pupils begin. They’re blown wide, although that could just be because it’s so dark in here. Still, I am captivated by the arc of his eyelashes when his eyes flick toward my lips.

“Jude,” he says quietly. The sweat is making his hair curl even more than usual. I want to mess it up so badly. I want to be kissed. I have never wanted anything more. Valedictorian, college acceptances, acknowledgment of my accomplishments, all of those wants vanish in the face of Cardan and his perfect Cupid’s bow, his full lower lips.

For one long, tense minute, we are not moving, breathing the same air. Then there is a quiet knock at the door, an almost fluttery beat, like that of a hummingbird’s wings. It’s the Bomb’s knock.

Cardan jerks back from me like he’s been hit with a sudden electric shock. “Okay,” he says, reassuring himself. “You’re as far away from the door as you can be. It’ll have to be enough. I just— won’t let them in. Yeah.”

He stands, looking down at me one more time, and then turns away. I see him subtly adjust himself before moving to stand in front of the door, blocking the entrance.

“Jude’s sick,” he calls.

The door swings open immediately.

Cardan doesn’t move. I peer at the doorway. Behind the Bomb’s slight form, I can make out the Roach, halfway to standing from his chair at the table.

“What’s wrong with her?” he asks.

“Fever,” Cardan lies.

“I should get the Ghost,” the Bomb says. I guess it’s a credit to how scared they are of Madoc that she sounds properly worried. “If her wound’s infected—”

“Then he fucked up. That’s exactly why you shouldn’t get him.” Cardan sounds properly commanding and haughty, an alpha born. You would never know he is actually nervous. I’m not sure whether I should be impressed or afraid that he’s such a good liar.

Because, of course, the reason not to get the Ghost is that he’s a likelier alpha than the Bomb. Because Cardan has made the same calculation I have: that the Bomb, a petite woman, is probably not a threat to me.

The Bomb frowns. “Did you check her leg?”

“Well, no…”

“Might as well, before we bother him,” says the Roach. “You know how he likes it up there in his perch.”

I send up a silent thank you to whoever might be listening. Cardan moves aside to let the Bomb enter, turning to watch her approach. When the Roach comes to the doorway, Cardan subtly shifts his weight to block half the entrance with his shoulder. If the Roach notices, he doesn’t remark on it.

“Jude,” says the Bomb, crouching down at my side in the space that Cardan had just occupied. “You okay?”

I blink and wrench my gaze over to her. I try to think of what I would normally say. After all, one time I went to school with a one hundred and two degree fever so as not to miss a history test. I only got sent home because I nearly fainted in gym. Our kidnappers wouldn’t know that, but they do know I downplayed being shot. That’s enough.

“I’m fine,” I grit out. “He’s exaggerating.”

Cardan rolls his eyes. The Bomb frowns. I am relieved that even this close, her scent does absolutely nothing for me, but maybe that’s because Cardan’s still lingers in the air. “Well, you don’t look fine.” She puts a hand to my forehead and the frown deepens. “Yeah, definitely warm. I’m going to take a look at your leg.”

I nod, although I don’t particularly want anyone crawling around anywhere near my lower body. Luckily, when she pulls the blankets aside, it’s only to my knee. “Hmm,” she says. “Nothing’s bleeding through. I don’t see anything weird.” She glances back at the door, and a look passes between her and the Roach that I don’t understand. “I’m going to unwrap it for a sec.”

“Fine,” I repeat.

Even though I do try to keep still while she does it, I can’t help but glance down. The wound looks okay. It’s scabbed over, and the skin is raw and pink at the borders, but it’s clearly healing normally. The Bomb rewraps my leg with steady hands, although not as well as the Ghost had.

“Well?” Cardan asks. Impatient, irritated. He wants everyone out of the room. “How is she?”

“Her leg’s okay,” the Bomb reports. Does anybody else realize the way they’re responding to him? Answering his questions, responding to physical cues? The chemical signals he’s sending out might not be driving anybody else here crazy, but they’re certainly having some effect, and nobody seems to know but me.

“Maybe a virus,” the Roach suggests. “Something you guys brought in with you.”

Cardan forces his face into a grimace. “I probably shouldn’t be locked in a tiny cell with her, then.”

“You might already have it, kid.”

“I feel fine.”

The Bomb and the Roach exchange another glance.

“C’mon,” Cardan presses. “I’ll be good. Plus, I kind of want to learn how to shuffle cards like you do. I’ve never seen anybody’s hands move that fast.”

I am forced to give Cardan a little credit here. I had noticed the Roach playing Solitaire, but I hadn’t really paid attention to anything else he did with the cards. And flattery is definitely a tool I haven’t mastered.

The Roach considers this, pressing his lips together. “All right,” he says at last. “You can sit across from me while the Bomb picks up some medicine for her. But so much as one sneeze and you’re back in the room.”

“Deal,” says Cardan, who glances at me. I try to force my face to remain neutral, even though, now that he’s on the verge of leaving, everything in me is screaming for him to stay. But it’s the right thing for him to go. He doesn’t want me, I don’t know what I want, and if he stays the decision will be made for us. I still ache at the idea of him leaving. Or maybe that’s just the fever.

So Cardan, and the Roach, and the Bomb all go, and I am alone. I don’t even hear anyone secure the deadbolt. I must look really wretched if they think I won’t try to escape again.

They’re right.

I turn back onto my side, wrapping the blankets tighter around me. I don’t know how much time I have before the Bomb returns, but it has to be more time than I need for this. I shove my right hand into my underwear, which is already soaked, as I know the blankets probably are and the mattress is. I should probably treat my own body with a little more care, but I can’t exactly light candles or run a warm bath, and it’s not like I ever go easy on myself.

At first I just try to look at the wall as I work, try to concentrate on the building of sensation between my thighs, but my mind keeps skipping like an old record, and every skip reminds me of the way Cardan’s dick felt against my ass. Which does arouse me more, but also makes me nervous. Alphas are supposed to be well-endowed, but I can’t imagine it fitting. I know there is a hole in me, but it’s metaphorical—the gaping maw that feeds on my accumulated trauma so I don’t have to deal with it—and while I also know biology facts like “the vaginal canal lengthens during arousal” it just doesn’t seem plausible. And anyway, none of this is sexy.

So I end up thinking about his fingers instead, even though I don’t want to think about any part of him at all. His long fingers, which are always moving, drumming on his knee, scratching at the wall, running through his hair. I think about how he said he knew his way around sex things and wonder if he could do a better job than I am doing right now. Would he be rough with me, like alphas are known to be? Or would he be gentle, with the same odd tenderness he’d shown when he tucked my hair behind my ear?

I don’t know why I break on that thought—I will never have that, he doesn’t want to give it to me, I will never know—but I do. Climax feels like shattering into a million tiny pieces. I muffle myself with the pillow, tasting dry cotton.

My face is wet, but not with sweat. I am crying. And because no one is here, I let myself cry, pretending that it’s just another symptom. That it can’t be helped. I let the tears come until they’re out of my system and my well of despair has run dry.

Then I settle in for a long and terrible day.

Next

[vampiresuns]

Again and Again, Even Though We Know Love’s Landscape | Asra x Milenko

☽ AGAIN AND AGAIN, EVEN THOUGH WE KNOW LOVE’S LANDSCAPE ☽

2.1k words. Written for Asra Week 2021, Day 4: Bonds. In which the secret of the Scourge is discovered, Anatole and Asra fight, and Milenko has no choice but to be caught in the middle.

Title comes from the poem of the same name, by Rainer Maria Rilke. Dani’s @apprenticealec​‘s Baudelaire family has a cameo here.

You can catch up with Milasra’s pre-game canon, ‘Like Thirst Holds Water’, here.

CW: Trauma talk, mentions of captivity, suggested regicide.

Milan had only seen Anatole angry, really angry, a couple of times. While his cousin was easy to rile up, he truly believed in being kind and understanding with people and lived by it, even if sometimes (a lot of times) people exasperated him. Anatole was rather introverted but there was no doubt he was as people-leaning as can be. He believed in the freedom and fulfilment of the people with a candidness that refused naiveness. Anatole, while not immune to his own youth, was no fool. 

He had a very determined set of things which did tick him off, that made him forget he was a polite person and unleashed his vindictive wrath upon whomever dared to do any of those things. Neglectful incompetence, abuse of power, people who tried to buy him over, cruel people, or people who spoke over him too many times. Same as people who purposely messed with his schedule, when he had already explained why he had one. Being lied to for no good reason or feeling betrayed by people he loved and actively gave his time to, also angered him. 

He supposed Asra’s was a good reason, or at least, he understood the reasons behind it. However, Milenko also wanted to think Asra had a good reason to keep from all of them why Muriel wasn’t around any more.

Milenko had always known there had to be another reason as to why Asra could not stand the Count — besides him trying to ask about his parents and getting nothing, Lucio’s slumming and overall intolerable personality, or the way he ruled. Milenko didn’t know what it was exactly, but he knew it had stirred something up in Asra, something that had been happening for at least a year. He had offered Asra the opportunity to come to him, whenever he was ready. His mothers had done the same, offering their home as a safe place; so had Anatole and Paris albeit in a different way than Milenko had.

Or was it different? He didn’t know. It was love, after all. 

Anatole had found out about Muriel because he had been more or less forced to go to the Colosseum. As a general rule, no Cassano, and certainly no Radošević-Cassano, went to the building. Public entertainment was not a problem, even when it was not their brand of public entertainment. Their problem was when aristocrats, or worse, rulers, used it to provide some sort of macabre bread and circus, holding people against their wills and depriving them from their rights, grooming people in a lesser position into fighting, and another set of practices they had tried to mend for years upon years with their hold of the Consulship. 

That was, perhaps, why it was even more crucial that the Cassano never went — because all of the social failings of Vesuvia which procured the main source of “gladiators” were things the Consul was usually responsible for, having to find ways to mitigate them. However, there were always people like the Baudelaire family and their circles who did not hesitate to use their own influence to keep their business models. Owning things was not a job, exploiting others was not a job. It had gotten to such a point of tension that when Valerian Cassano was still performing, he refused to do it if a Baudelaire was in the audience, especially if it was their patriarch. His husband, Iovanus, former Consul of Vesuvia, had not been much better when he was still alive: the old Count Spada had to force him to hold meetings with them, otherwise, he plainly refused to, and Iovanus was stubborn as a mule. 

The Cassano took their civic duties seriously. Way too seriously to some people. Lucio was one of those people, which made matters worse. Count-Consul cooperation was minimal, despite certain rumours flying around in the City, and with Vlastomil as the Praetor, the criminal justice system in Vesuvia was decidingly falling apart. Lucio could say whatever he wanted, but everyone who had an ounce of critical thinking could tell what the Scourge of the South, or rather, Muriel —Milenko would not use that never, he would never use a name that wasn’t Muriel’s own— actually was to him.

Now they knew Lucio had threatened Muriel with hurting Asra, and lied to Asra about his possibility to free him if he paid his “debt”. Of course, the debt didn’t really exist, it was all a fabrication from Lucio, who did it simply because he could. Anatole was so angry about it Milenko heard him say something which he had only heard him say for the worst kind of people: “In Balkovia, people like this get murdered for less.” He was so angry, Milenko saw his cousin do something he never did — he reminded Asra everything he had offered with his friendship, how his family had opened up for him, a home, a safe place, all of it with nothing attached. For him and for Muriel. 

Nothing was attached still, Anatole wasn’t asking for retribution, he was asking for Asra to acknowledge the bond they were supposed to have, when in a time of need he could’ve used the entire weight of the Cassano to get Muriel out of it. Milenko had talked to Anatole first, caught between his friend and partner, and his cousin; Asra had wanted space anyway, so Milenko offered that to him. 

One way or another, he knew better than to tell Anatole what to do. He knew his cousin like he knew the water, so all he needed to do was let him talk and nudge him, and he would come around on his own. However, the more he heard him talk, the angrier Anatole got. 

“You know Muriel is everything he's got. Muriel didn’t talk about it either.”

“Muriel is the only person more hermetic than Asra, and if he doesn’t tell Asra first, he’s probably not telling anyone. Ever. Not to forget, he thinks we’re loud and weird. I just feel—”

“Stupid and you hate it?”

“So incredibly stupid.”

Milenko tried to tell Anatole it wasn’t his fault, and he meant it. Asra had to learn how to rely on others, instead of just enclosing himself so no harm ever came through his defences, nor to him, nor to his loved ones. Who better than Milenko to know. 

Anatole just sounded bitter and dejected when he spoke. “He knows I can tell when he’s lying to my face, Milenko. I’m not asking him to tell me everything. He can tell me he doesn’t want to talk about something and establish a boundary, which he knows he can do. I am asking my friend not to lie to my fucking face when I can literally feel he’s lying to me.”

Milenko hated how bitterness looked on him. It was wrong. Out of place. 

“I’m sorry, Nana. Maybe we should’ve all seen this sooner.”

“You saw nothing of this, didn’t you?”

Milenko sighed, being his time to sound defeated. “Yes and no. You know I can’t really control what I see. I wasn’t like it was with— with… you know—”

“Decimo?” Anatole smiled for the first time in their conversation, trying to reassure him. “You can say the name of the rat bastard, even if he doesn’t deserve to step on the same earth we do.”

“No,” Milenko said, surprising himself with how teeth-grinding angry he felt, “no he doesn’t. But what I was saying is that it wasn’t like that, when I just knew you weren’t safe. I think it’s because I’m not as close to Muriel as I am to you.”

Anatole sighed. “I think he uses protective charms. He’s never shown me much, but I’m pretty sure Muriel can do abjuration like,” Anatole clicked his cheeks, a gesture he had unknowingly copied from his friend Leonore, “better than most people we know that can.” 

They sat together for a long while until Anatole said he had to go. Milenko asked him what he would do, his cousin answering with a shrug. “At this point? I am willing to do anything in my power so this slimy, little, petty tyrant eats up everything he ever did to Vesuvia, and maybe everything he’s ever done to me in Court while we’re at it. And to Aunt Cassie, and to Iovanus, and to every living person whose life he’s fucked over. I don’t know how, I don’t know when, but I’ll do it, whatever it takes.”

Milenko didn’t say anything. Anatole looked determined, and once Anatole was determined to see something through, he didn’t waver.  

When he went back to find Asra, he was curled over himself, quietly crying. Asra felt the dent on the bed when Milenko sat in it, his cries erupting and resurfacing the moment he felt Milenko rubbing his back. The poet began humming a song for Asra, offering all the comfort he could. He was always so kind to him, he was always so loving to him; Milenko was always so good to him, and Asra was a mess. He knew better than to say anything, because after the three years and counting they’ve been together, Asra knew Milenko had very disarming arguments for that line of thought of his. 

When Asra spoke again, was to ask Milenko if Anatole was angry at him. 

Milenko sighed. “I think with you is more appropriate. Not for the reasons you think, though.

“What about then?” Asra asked, voice raspy through a sniffle.

“Beloved, he understands you grow at your own rate. No one is judging you or blaming you for not knowing how to deal with things, or not knowing when to reach out. He’s angry you lied to his face. Beloved, you know Anatole senses that. You know he can tell when you do it. He doesn’t care that you don’t tell him things you’re not ready to talk about, just, don’t lie to my cousin to his face.”

Milenko didn’t know what he was expecting, but Asra beginning to cry again was not it. With a lovefull sigh, he pulled his partner closer, letting Asra cling to him like an anchor to something Milenko didn’t quite understand. He knew, however, that Asra’s grief, that which he carried alone and alone only, was deep. A wound so deep it had pierced him to the very centre of his being and changed him forever.

He wanted to tell him he understood. Milenko’s first memory wasn’t a memory; it was a pit of panic ingrained in him out of something he had been told about but couldn’t really remember. He was a toddler, and the war in Balkovia was still raging on, and someone had decided Blasio, Violeta and him weren’t the right sort of people— 

Yet as Asra cried himself to sleep, Milenko helping him wash his face and handing him water to drink before he finally passed out, Milenko said nothing. Something told him it was not the right thing to say and that Asra, distressed and afraid, would not appreciate it. It was through no fault of his own, though, and Milenko knew this. Trauma and loneliness were fissures which never sealed right, no matter how well one learnt to handle them. On top of that, Asra was not a great fan of confrontation, and his argument with Anatole had hit not in one but two places because Asra now didn’t just carry the fear of Muriel being hurt (which he had been, several times) or Muriel dying, but also the one of losing Anatole for this, or Anatole doing something that he wouldn’t be able to stop and getting hurt for something Asra would assume was his fault. 

There had to be something tragic waiting to happen in a friendship so coloured by Romance. 

Milenko couldn’t sleep, so he held Asra instead, drawing idle patterns on the magician's back as he felt his soft, sleep-heavy breath tickling his skin. For the first time in the years they’ve been together, Milenko looked at their relationship and he Saw. Again and again, Asra and him chose to walk together, a love that made Milenko feel like anywhere was a field of flowers, a love that made him feel like he would burst at the seams with it. A love so heavy, no one that young should feel it, but perhaps they felt it because they were young. 

This was what the poets meant when they said Beloved, and maybe even then, when it came to him and Asra, love would not be enough. 

Morning came, and at least for the morrow, Milenko chose to love Asra again. He’d deal with the rest later.

[a-sleepyblackcatyawning]

For 3,285 days, that’s each day for the past nine years, the quirks, those tiny bundles of stolen DNA, had plotted and enacted torture upon torture upon their jailer. Things had gotten stale. Their jailer had stopped reacting. It was time to revise.

-----

Just in time for his nightly torture, the holder of All for One awoke the usual dreamscape, a dreary misty world seemingly left intentionally vague, as though to enhance all his senses in the worst way possible.

In the beginning, once he had stolen - actually stolen, not relieved scared people from their quirks - his first quirk, his nights had stopped being restful. He’d tried all sorts of remedies to regain a peaceful sleep, to no avail. He’d even tried the alternative medicine that Yoichi had suggested, infusions of valerian root, wild cabbage and chamomile. Juniper wine. But constant exposure to death, fear and pain had taken its toll, and he no longer dreaded his daily nightmares. To suffer them was akin to suffering aging, a fleeting experience with no bearing on his daily life. In fact, rather like age, he’d started to use his daily nightmares as experience in life: he’s gotten some pretty good results in using his own nightly phantasms as inspiration in torture during his waking hours.

Tonight seems no different. The same shapes, the same scenery, the same start.

The holder of All for One puts up a token fight against the shadowy ghosts of his unconscious, as though to say, “Here, I fight, though it is futile. This is done against my will.”

The shadows - and they are, indeed shadows, naught but wisps of black smoke with vague outlines and shining eyes - congregate around the holder of All for One. More appear by the second, as though he were a magnet and the shadows, iron fillings.

Unlike other nights when the holder of All for One is allowed to flee with terror nipping at his heels, the shadows press him down intent that his torture begin with no buildup. Since Hisashi had slaughtered an entire family earlier that day, the holder of All for One is unsurprised at what his unconscious has chosen. If Id and Ego work in tandem during the day, then Superego is free to reign in dreams, when Id should otherwise be let out to play.

The weight of these shadows is profound. Not heavy, for that would imply weight, which the shadows don’t have, but with all the substance of a lungful of cigarette smoke, grounding, unhealthy, unassailable in potency. The holder of All for One’s struggles are futile, mere flesh and blood against Hisashi’s addiction to biology.

They hold him down, press him to the seabed of his unconscious from which the holder of All for One has no escape. The holder of All for One braces himself for the pain, which never comes. Smokey hands pass through the facsimile of clothing which disintegrates like so much paper under a flame.

The holder of All for One struggles, efforts redoubled, at the change of the customary, but flesh and blood pass through the spectres with no more influence than the dead has on the living. His attempts to struggle are farcical. The holder of All for One struggles straight onto an insubstantial cock.

The dead on the living. This is just the vestiges of my conscious attempting to guilt me, the holder of All for One thinks. His renewed struggles subside.

As though spurred on by this thought, as though waiting for his thought, the wispy spectres solidify, forming a familiar shape. The holder of One for All, that unexpected, anomalous quirk, stands, kneels, looms over the splayed holder of All for One.

And then, for the first time in years, the spectres speak.

“He must like this. Tightened right up.”

“For real? Always knew there was something fucked up about him. Only a brocon would go that gaga over his little brother.”

“Hahahaha! Does this really count as torture if we’re giving him the wetdream of his life?”

No! Hisashi thinks. It’s disgust, that’s all that is. He doesn’t want this. He’s never wanted Yoichi like this. Hisashi opens his mouth to protest, but his open mouth is taken as an invitation. Smoke, warm and impossibly solid, fucks over his tongue and down his throat, as though he were deepthroating the world’s largest cigar.

“Look. He’s hard. What a slut!”

No, it’s just the result of adrenaline. Physical arousal doesn’t mean consent or even sexual desire.

“Yeah, he must have been hoping that this’d happen when he accepted those drinks years ago.”

A cock shaped of smoke stifles Hisashi’s scream as the holder of All for One endures a new nightly torture.

—

In what is quite possibly a rarer occurrence than a solar eclipse, Yoichi wakes before Hisashi. With a mischievous grin, he sashays over to Hisashi’s bedroom, throws open the door and then jumps on the still sleeping figure of his brother, pinning him down.

Right as he’s about to unleash a tickle attack of epic proportions, Hisashi’s eyes fly open as he screams.

Yoichi is unceremoniously shoved off the bed as Hisashi curls into a ball near the headboard. No matter what he says, cajoles or promises, nothing is enough to move Hisashi from his defensive position. Yoichi leaves, defeated.

Hisashi stays huddled until he’s sure that Yoichi has gone. Only then does he uncurl with a shudder of loathing. His pajama bottoms are unpleasantly cold and sticky. He’s not sure who he hates more.

[ofcloudsandstars]

IMBOLC was so MAGICAL!! Oh my goodness!!

It's a bit of a long story and I don't want to leave out too many details but I am so glad it all turned out more than ok!! I did not have enough time to put everything together easily and I had to whip up a ritual last minute and I was staying at a coworker’s BOUGIE apartment that is BEAUTIFUL and Ideal for an Imbolc setting (the color scheme is like all white, gray and cream with TALL ceilings, Huge french windows, fluffy white carpets, fireplaces I could put white pillar candles in, long sheer white curtains, you get the point lol) but literally I had a witch gathering party at his place while he was away and I had to make it look like nothing. ever. happened.. the next morning.

I bought these string candle-lights which everyone was laughing at how in theme it was but I strung some across window sills and over the fireplace that I've stuffed white pillar candles in. I stuck tea lights everywhere and found some silvery tealights at a corner shop that were "spa scented" which sounds weird but!! They smelled fantastic and made the space feel calmer. I topped those with sage leaves. I used vanilla incense sticks and this other scent called 'Divine' (that stamford masala incense brand you might see at every spiritual shop) that really elevated the space and made it feel calm and angelic. The whole apartment felt very angelic, light, white and fluffy. On their large screen TV I made a visual playlist on youtube of timelapse videos of nature thawing into spring and frost melting or flowers sprouting from the ground. I played a lot of winter meditative tracts and purifying binural beats.

I pulled strings to get out of work early so I could run to my coworkers place, feed his cats, and get to cooking!! I made a spread of cheese, (mostly brie), coconut cheese, cheese infused crackers and poppyseed crackers, black sable grapes and blueberries that I sprinkled silver bonbons in.

I prepared 3 tonics as a welcome drink that my witch friends could choose from to what potion will aid them for the seeds they are sowing and the cycles to come. They were syrups that were agave based and infused with herbs overnight. There was one for clarity to know what steps to take to achieve goals and that was an infusion of sage, juniper berries and rosemary. There was one for inspiration and sudden muse or creativity to help complete projects and that one was an infusion of valerian root, chamomile, blue poppyseeds and caraway seeds. (Seeds were also symbolic in this one lol), then lastly there was one for inner fire and a wake-up call to get the drive going to get tasks done. That was a black breakfast tea leaf with a sprinkle of pepper in it. They were mixed with Gin (gin being a juniper infusion actually has an interesting history with being used as a cleanser and medicine though its obviously not used that way anymore) and tonic so they were all really herbal and refreshing (non-alcoholic drinks were just gin-free) and they all had a pretty light golden clear color. The clarity one was the most popular though I wish I drank some of the wake-up call one myself.

For food I made baked macaroni and cheese with mozzarella, sharp cheddar, brie, sweet sauteed white onions, black pepper and truffle oil. The plant-based option was stuffed cabbage rolls made with this BEAUTIFUL cabbage I had no idea existed (it caught my eye in the store) called sweetheart cabbage. It was snow-white colored and each large leaf was somewhat heart-shaped. I stuffed it with a sauteed combo of white sweet onions, white mushrooms, chopped parsnips, cauliflower rice and coconut cheese. Lastly I made a salad of chopped fennel and the smaller leaves of the sweet heart cabbage and raw parsnips.

The whole table's food had a white and beige theme lol. We all caught up about our lives and ate food and coo-ed over the cats. When everyone arrived we got to the ritual which I dressed his coffee table in different tea lights and bigger candles. Since I am WIZENED from many previous disasters with candles on tables and witch shenanigans, I put SEVERAL covers on his glass coffee table which consisted of 1- bamboo mats, 2- a white blanket as table cloth (mostly for aesthetic) 3- a coat of aluminum foil 4- 2 layers of cream table cloths. Just to ensure nothing could damage his table.

I am not the biggest fan of leading ritual cause it feels uncomfortable to me to 'lead' everyone's energy but its nice cause this is the third sabbat in a row I've hosted and I guess my friends get the gist now so they all kind of contribute their own parts to it which is.. WHAT I WANTED IN THE FIRST PLACE lol. I take initiative to host sabbats or gatherings or create a community so sometimes people think I am a leader cause I am initiating something but honestly I just want to hold space for others. Anyway the ritual started off with us cleansing baggage from our previous cycle so we can move into the next one purified. I had a juniper bundle I bought in glastonbury that I smoke cleansed everyone with.

Then we spoke about what Imbolc meant for us and how its also reflective on the cycle of life and death when the spirit enters the womb and how seeds of life and hope are stirring. I asked them each to take a tea light and visualize it as a goal or project they wanted to accomplish for this year and to dress it in herbs and oils. I had sage for clarity, rosemary for abundance, blue poppy seeds for growth and inspiration, tea tree oil for protection etc and they could carve in symbols to their candle or whatever. When they were working on that I read everyone's spirit's incarnation crosses from their human design since I knew everyone's birth time lol. The incarnation cross uses some astrology to take into consideration the position of the planets during your third trimester when it’s believed that the spirit enters the body in the womb. It’s to illuminate what your spirit’s intention in this incarnation seeks to fulfill. 

Before we lit the candle my best witch friend took us on this AMAZING guided mediation that was so creative and visual and wonderful. We grounded ourselves but she took us on this story-telling guided meditation journey of us being deep in the earth and smelling the damp soil but having our goal be this light or seed within us that grows and expands until it pushes us up and out through the soil into the wintery forest air. I really felt like some reborn forest faerie sprite after that like she should record meditation podcasts.

We then lit our candles and we used the flame to light the biggest pillar candle as our combined hope and it lit ABLAZED. One of my friends couldn't get her candle to light and we did divination for her to find out what was blocking her and did a road opening spell for her so that she could overcome the obstacles.

After we wanted to do some candle scrying so another friend who does these amazing sound healing ceremonies (I went to glastonbury with her) lead the candle scrying and Y'all.. it was INSANE Like none of us were READY for the fucking adventure.. Basically we thought we'd all be staring into a candle in a trance quietly but it literally felt like something took hold of her like a greater spirit used her as a vessel and it was incredible. She told us all to hold hands and we closed our eyes and did some breathing. We all had to pulse each others hands and visualize a white thread locking us together for protection and creating a circle. She then called on to our higher guides to protect us and create this link to our higher spirits to open a channel so that we may see and allow the fire to guide us. She then was speaking so fast but also with such precision on how the light is opening a door and whatever we will see will help us unlock our true potential and see how we are the light etc for what felt like 6 minutes nonstop and it was so hard to stay on cause I had the WORST PAIN come up in the center of my back where my heart was and I was feeling like it was the culmination of energy being blocked (I have been doing sound healing there to help my heart energy but its been a rough journey), and the fire just felt like it could not channel through me cause of that blockage, but though the knot still hurts even as I type this, I could not break the circle lol. My best friend to my right was staring so intently I knew she was off like astral projecting into this fire, and as I would catch glimpses of others around me everyone was just like.. ON a Journey. I felt like it was like that scene in Harry Potter when they took the port key like we were all locked in and spiraling through time and space and I just had to wait until it was done. I looked at my friend to my right and she was beaming with TEARS covering her face, and my other friends looked windswept for some reason?? We were all like goddamn.. Everyone had Some Shit they've seen in the fire. Even if some of us didn't see something we saw a lot of colors which I mostly saw since I was really focused on the pain in my back. My friend leading the scrying said that the back area I pointed out was a channel that was blocked and is connected to my throat energy so once I fix that it can be aligned/opened but its like.. healing is so hard guys haha.

Anyway we grounded ourselves after the ritual with dessert! :) There was cheesecake (of course) I decorated with white chocolate star sprinkles and the same silver bonbon sprinkles and pavlova that could be topped with blueberries. I also had a cookie spread of butter cookies, white chocolate chip sugar cookies and white chocolate twix bars. The rest were mostly vegan desserts which were lovely. I bought coconut rice pudding but my other friends got vanilla cupcakes with thick white vegan buttercream, there was vanilla soy icecream that was really creamy and light and my aries witch friend I went to Berlin with made home made vegan tiramisu which was fantastic! She also bought red wine.

We spent the rest of the evening chatting, playing with the cats and laughing about whatever, my Aries witch friend was upset I made the dresscode all-white but she was wearing her 'artist' shirt she does painting in so she didn't care that she got tiramisu ALL OVER IT lol. (which we pointed out that no one else had stains on their white outfits but I mean she's an Aries what do you expect), and when we were all getting drunk and sleepy I asked my best witch friend if she wanted to tell a story and Oh My God she fucking DELIVERED

Basically she took us on this adventure retelling the story of Baba Yaga cause it was a tale that does also have to do with crone passing power to a maiden and a cycle re-continuing. Plus it's a midwinter tale involving fire and illumination. Anyway I used to think about how sad it was that back in the day people didn't have movies and had to like tell stories and shit but she was so good at telling this story I was like damn I get it now why people just used to sit around and tell stories together cause this shit is lit.

Before everyone left I forced people to take home food (I mean I had to get rid of all evidence of anything happening in my coworkers house) and I made everyone white paper lanterns with goodies inside and I stuck an electric tealight in it so it glows. I put a bathbomb in there, white chocolate, mint crumbles, buttermints for the non-vegans and tiny spell-jars filled with salt flakes.

When I was finally alone and had to do cleanup it took me nearly three hours but I was also drunk at that point lol. I now have left-over mac and cheese for days but gladly my aries witch friend is vegan and took the cabbage rolls with her and everyone helped take everything else.The cleaner came in the morning and essentially all evidence of anything ever occurring in that apartment was cleansed away...

I hope everyone else had a fantastic Imbolc!! It was on such a perfect moon phase too since it's the first quarter moon!!

[manuelmueller]

for truth or dare: 5, 10, 12, 19, 24, 29

5: (truth) If your parents knew everything you’ve ever done, what would they think is the worst thing? (dare) Tag the three nonmutuals you admire most.

DARE: @salamispots @larapaulussen @mienar – yes all artists cause I genuinely am in awe of the talent here on tumblr!! these are only a few that I really adore and that just popped into my mind, feel free to ask for more!!

10: (truth) What was your favorite band five years ago? (dare) Tag a blog that posts very different content from yours, but that you couldn’t imagine not following.

DARE: @clumsyalienn makes AMAZING, AMAZING TS4 CC, if you play the game pls go check them out!!

12: (truth) What are your five favorite girls’ names and five favorite boys’ names? (dare) Copy and paste the 14th line of text from the last document you worked on in Word or Google Drive.

TRUTH: again doing both

Boys: Fabian, Florian, Angus, Tobias, ValerianGirls: Flurina, Amber, Licinia, Ela, LISA

….. what I take from this is that I seem to like names with F (also good god the girls were hard … had to scratch those together … can u tell I mostly write boys)

DARE: “Desiring a teammate of his - one he thought at the time to be straight, too - had ultimately been less difficult to deal with than falling in love with him, an attachment much less fickle than simple sexual attraction, much less likely to fade.”

(ok listen …….. this is not actually from a ‘fic’ that I ever intended to finish or post, but here have a sentence of a random few paragraphs of Manu discovering the sexual part of his sexuality :3c)

19: (truth) What is the first thing you remember having to keep secret? (dare) Tag five bloggers who you associate with being obsessed with something particular, and list what each of them is obsessed with.

TRUTH: HAH JOKES ON YOU CAUSE MY MEMORY IS FUCKING SHIT …. but probably having a “crush” on a one of the boys in primary school (I went to school with him for a total of 12 years in the end …. yeah it was no crush I just thought his curls looked cute XD)

24: (truth) If you could only own five material objects (not counting life necessities like food/water/a house/etc) what would they be? (dare) Put your music player on shuffle. Post what the first three songs are, and for each one, tag a blog that the song reminds you of.

DARE: I love these musical ones ngl

Organs – Of Monsters and Men

Menswear – The 1975

Send Me On My Way – Rusted Roots

1. ok this is a complicated one, but I’ve always associated this song with Lesley May from the Rivers of London series, and since @simplyirenic is the person I associate with those books on here, that’s who I’m tagging ^^

2. fuck this I genuinely have no idea but this song makes me feel like what I picture a really hot day in the US is like so @eszopiclon this one’s for u :D

3. YAH I GENUINELY HAVE NO FRICKIN IDEA ….. there’s no one on here I watched Ice Age with …. but well …. I always used to watch animated films over discord with @landonenorris so, bubba

29: (truth) What are your worst habits? (dare) Put your Top 25 Most Played songs on shuffle and list the first five.

TRUTH: procrastinating, avoiding things because of social anxiety, that I get really mad AND scared really quickly

truth or dare!

[sensenoi]

I recently reread Cruel Prince/read the B&N short story, and I had THOUGHTS:

Cardan is already drunk at the coronation because he's angsty about his least favorite brother becoming king, but he gets really drunk to the point of completely missing the coronation massacre because he's pissed about Jude. So essentially, Jude is indirectly responsible for saving his life.

I love how Jude is so shocked that Cardan is attracted to her that her first thought is that he must somehow be lying or twisting his words, while Kaye figures it out in about five seconds flat just watching them dance from a distance, before she's spoken to either one of them.

During the nixie episode, Jude thinks Cardan goes to the river's reeds to get a better look when she slips and falls in the water. He's really about to get into the river to help her if she was actually in trouble. I love how she automatically assumes the worst conclusions with him.

Cardan was probably looking for Jude under the tables after the coronation massacre. She and Taryn have a well-established habit of hiding under the tables at feasts, and he knew she would be in danger. It wasn't luck that Jude got her hands on Cardan - he was actively trying to find her.

One of the guards at Hollow Hall tells Jude and Sophie that Cardan has to return them both back this time. This raises SO MANY QUESTIONS. Cardan at the start of CP wouldn't be the type to return glamoured humans to the human world - he really does have a contempt of them, learned from Balekin and from his friends. But he also wouldn't intentionally hurt human servants either, and definitely not kill them. So what was happening there? I don't think we'll ever get answers and that upsets me a little.

When Jude first breaks into Cardan's room, she sees that he broke his pen. The pen he was writing his infamous Jude note with… so many angsty feelings.

Jude and co are literally the biggest dumbasses for not seeing the Balekin/Madoc alliance coming. Jude recognizes the spy she killed as being Madoc's and just decides not to mention it?? Jude figures out they've been misreading the blusher mushroom note and then not only fails to follow up on her investigation (to be fair, getting sidetracked to rescue Sophie is a noble cause), she fails to mention it to the Court! Sorry but the Court of Shadows is really bad at spying. Just epically bad. No wonder they mess up again in WK.

Cardan making out with random fairies while watching Jude make out with Locke is a mood and I can't believe Jude didn't figure out things sooner.

At the beginning of WK, when Grimsen is introduced, Jude mentions that Cardan had told her some info once about the Alderking's son Severin. I totally forgot that happened in CP and that we also met Severin.

I love how at the coronation and the Hollow Hall party, murder and mayhem is happening with abandon and everyone just stands around eating popcorn and watching the shenanigans unfold.

I really liked The Lost Sisters novella, but it ended a little too soon. I'm forever curious about Taryn's thought process when Jude comes in with Cardan at the Hollow Hall party.

In addition to Jude and co being unbearably bad spies, the one other major failing of the book is that it starts at the point when Jude stops giving a shit and starts fighting back. For the majority of her childhood, Jude has sat with Taryn under tables and hidden in balconies at feasts, bowed her head and bit her tongue to Cardan, and generally kept a low profile when the faeries are asshats to her. At the start of CP, Jude decides she's had enough and enters her rebellious teenage phase. Taryn says multiple times in CP that Jude fighting back "isn't like you" and is a new bad idea Jude hasn't had before. This is reinforced in The Lost Sisters. But we don't really get much of a glimpse of Jude's previously meek behavior, except at the first feast when she curtsies to Cardan. Because of this, Jude starts off in feisty rage mode, which rather lessens the effect of said mode because we don't have anything to compare it to. I wish CP had started a little earlier, so we could get a better contrast and also a better idea of how Jude survived this long if she's willing to push everyone's buttons.

It's very clear that Cardan was attracted to Jude even when he was with Nicasia, which much have pissed him off to no end. I'm so curious when he started developing feelings for Jude.

I didn't notice this so much in WK, but in CP Cardan and Jude's contrasting approaches to alcohol speaks volumes about their personalities. Jude has a low alcohol tolerance and wouldn't drink anyways because she likes to always be in control of herself and always be in a sane frame of mind. She feels like she always needs to be on her toes and can never truly relax (and is in fact kind of creeped out by how relaxed and chill she was at Locke's house). Cardan drinks in excess because he hates his life and if he's drunk he can basically forget about it. Jude is constantly aware of her shitty situation and makes copious efforts to improve it by any means possible. Cardan is unmotivated to improve his shitty situation because he believes there is no way to fix or improve it, so might as well get drunk and have fun.

It will never cease to amuse me that one of Cardan's demands in exchange for helping Jude and co stop Balekin is all the alcohol in the palace. Like, damn.

I love the part when Jude and Cardan are in class the day after she snuck into Hollow Hall and saw Balekin beat him, and she realizes he's actually in a lot of pain but pretending to be his usual chill, snarky self. And she realizes that there's been plenty of times he's come to class and has pretended he's fine when he isn't, just like her. It's a nice moment early-ish on where Jude starts to understand that she and Cardan have more in common than she'd like to think.

It's also a great scene when Jude finally tells Cardan the exact circumstances of Valerian's death. Cardan says he assumed Jude had hunted down and murdered Valerian, and I rather like that Cardan had begun to think the worst of Jude in the same way that she thought the worst of him. When she holds him at knife's point at the end of the coronation, she realizes she's smirking in the same way that Cardan usually did to her. So there's some nice continued role reversal where Cardan is taking on Jude's worst case scenario expectations. When Jude explains that Valerian actually tried to kill her again and came pretty close, Cardan realizes that he had misunderstood Jude's character. Holly Black has said that Cardan is the only person who truly understands Jude, and I think that moment is when Cardan really starts to get Jude and how she operates. He understands that Jude isn't actually as mean and nasty as she's been pretending to be, and that she must have given Valerian quite a few chances for him to have nearly strangled her.

Not a new note, but Vivi's decision to give zero fucks about anything Madoc cares about is amazing and a beauty to witness. The fact that she has maintained and sustained this kind of rebellion for ten years is honestly life goals.

Returning to the B&N short story, I quite like Kaye and I hope she and Jude become friends. But I really don't get the Kaye/Roiben dynamic. I don't think the story did a great job of making their relationship convincing, in part because the story got majorly sidetracked with playing voyeur to Jude and Cardan. Which was my favorite part of the story, but still. This is Kaye's short story, not Jude and Cardan's.

I have SO. MANY. QUESTIONS about the Ghost's motivations. After the coronation massacre, everyone is upset, but the Roach is mostly upset that they now have literally nothing without Dain while the Ghost is mostly upset that Dain is dead. So the Ghost is loyal to Dain, whereas the rest of the Court of Shadows were mostly opportunistic and loyal to the power and money that Dain could offer them. But then why would the Ghost side with Balekin and the Undersea in WK? Balekin literally killed Dain. He stabbed him straight through the chest. I can see the Ghost thinking Jude and Cardan and shitty rulers, but I can't fathom him siding with Balekin. There is clearly other things going on that will be explained in QoN, but right now I am a very confused person.

So it wasn't clear to me until after I reread CP that the original Hollow Hall plan was to drug Madoc and then have him fall asleep at the party while Jude was in the hallway letting the Court in through the window. It wasn't Jude's original intent for Madoc to follow her out, and their duel was her improvising to delay Madoc until the poison took effect. So the OG plan was just for Madoc to collapse in the party in front of everyone and for Balekin to just think this was fine and normal?! I would think that would totally freak Balekin out and maybe even lead him to cancel the party immediately, which would ruin Jude's plan.

Where are the other faerie lands?? Where do the other courts live? Jude has literally only ever been to the islands of Elfhame, but there's this massive faerie world out there that she's heard about but never been to. I'm so curious, and I have a good feeling we'll find out in QoN since the setting is ice and snow.

By the way, super curious also about how Cardan has a copy of Alice in Wonderland in his room. I guess he sees Alice as a Jude parallel. Is he more curious about Alice, the intruder in Wonderland, or about the inhabitants of Wonderland themselves? Everyone keeps commenting that Jude and Taryn's situation is like a fairytale come to life, but I think it's interesting to view their situation through an Alice in Wonderland lens. In the book, Wonderland is insane because it literally runs on dream logic, nothing makes sense, and Alice spends the entire book attempting and failing to apply human logic and reasoning to the madness she encounters. But what if Wonderland wasn't a dream, and what if Alice couldn't go back home in the end? What if Alice had to stay in Wonderland forever?

Every time Cardan tells Jude that she doesn't belong in Faerie and should leave, all I can think about is in WK, when he tells her, "I wasn't sure if I wanted you or wanted you gone from my sight so I that I would stop feeling as I did." Having read that in WK, it's so interesting to go back and see those moments in CP where Cardan is trying to get Jude to leave Faerie so he can forget about her and move on. 

When Jude first starts trying to make alliances with other courts, we get this great line: “’Take care’ he [Cardan] says, then smiles. ‘It would be very dull to have to sit here for an entire day just because you went and got yourself killed.’” Cardan admitted earlier to Jude that he smiles when he’s nervous, and I’m convinced that’s why he’s smiling here. He tells her to take care because he’s genuinely worried about her safety. Then he has an ‘oh shit my feelings are showing’ moment and backtracks by covering his slip up with an insult. 

[ren-val]

Depeche Mode - The Wheel (another one of my faves) just show me what you can do

“Im gonna do something short“ I said, you know, like a liar. I don’t have enough of these fools. And this time is not as angsty, but at the same time is harsher. I tried to convey all the emotions, and I just... wow, this is the kinda things Depeche Mode makes you do, right?

He was laying down in the bed, the room dark and cold, his hands still marked with the scorching ashes left by angelfire, his soul drained by the sheer magnitude of what he and Valerian had done.

“Ethan?“

His mind was too tired to even register the fact that he was not alone. That he had not been alone in years, that he was not alone when he killed his sire and drank his blood.

“Ethan, please answer me“

There was concern in that voice. The most sincere, sweet and disgusting form of concern. One that made him snarl and shiver. It almost made him puke, but he was no fledgling vampire anymore, if anything, those wild days of rebellion were over.

And it scared the shit out of him.

“What?“ 

He spitted towards the closed door.

He heard a sigh, one that made his heart ache. The sound of fingers touching the door, a forehead against the wood. The sounds of caring. Cloying and smothering and so, so very fragile. They make him feel nausea, and fear, and a thousand other things he wanted to burn and forget.

“I am worried about you. A lot”

Of course he was worried. Valerian was always worried. He didn’t understand why; things were simple. They had killed the wretched old pervert: Ethan had slashed his throat and then Valerian burned him to a crisp with angelfire. Simple. Extremely simple.

“I am fine”

He wasn’t. There was a void. A huge, gaping void where decades of hatred and minutes of joy had lived. It was going to eat his soul whole, but he didn’t care much. He wasn’t given much of a choice when born or raised or embraced, there had always been the desires of others…

“You are not. I know you’re not fine”

There it was, the desire to control, masquerading as caring. He had killed the fucker who had harmed him. And he was fine. He was tired of thinking, and of feeling that now he had no idea what to do and where to go. He was never someone of plans and ideas. That was for those who believed in some shit. Like Valerian.

“Oh yeah? How the fuck do you know?”

He growled and snarled, his eyes stinging from tears he didn’t want to shed. Tears that no one deserved. The old pervert was dead, and it what was mattered. That he had screamed in pain and yelled for mercy … but still dared to claim that all he had done was out of love. Disgusting. Pathetic. Revenge stained by a sliver of weakness.

Weakness, that’s what he felt when Valerian whispered behind the closed door. 

“Because you haven’t called me princess in days”

It was something stupid, small and ridiculous. But the tone in which Valerian spoke was not the whimper of a scorned puppy, but the clear voice of a darkborn. He was not begging for an explanation: he was telling a fact. It was a harsh reminder that, as much as Ethan liked to forget it, Valerian acted different with him.

“Why? Do you miss it? Ok princess, now leave me alone”

Ethan almost retched at the realization that he did not want to say that. He embraced the poison and weightlessness of his own words: he didn’t want Valerian to see him like that. He didn’t want anyone to care about him. He wanted to throw himself at the hands of fate, to give himself up in a plate so he could stop feeling so numb and hurt at the same time.

He heard Valerian sigh 

“Do you really want to be alone?”

It was another stupid question. So, so stupid it made him cry; Ethan did not know what to answer. He wanted to be alone so no one would see his weakness, he wanted to be with someone just to fight them and feel strong, but most of all, Ethan wanted the pain to stop. He wanted to feel as he did before, angry and full of life, eager for revenge and pain and pleasure. Anything but empty.

“I don’t fucking know”

He heard his own voice breaking. Pathetic. He slashed his lips with his fangs, biting down until a bloodied whimper escaped from his mouth. He had his revenge, the fucker was dead, and all he was feeling was emptiness: he had killed his sire, as he had killed other bastards before. But those were the bastards who had accepted him somehow, and it was the man who said that loved him, that had always loved him.

He heard nothing, and for a moment he thought Valerian had left him alone, and instead of feeling relieved, he felt abandoned. And then heartbroken. And then angry at himself for even thinking Valerian would really care for his weakness. He felt the mental lash of insults and hatred flaying his psyche; the names, the humiliations, the violations…

“You don’t deserve this pain”

He raised his face and focused for a moment: Valerian was still behind the door, crying.

“You have not done anything that made you deserve it”

It was just a whisper, but something in those words hit him harder than any scream, than any insult, than any snarl or moan. Ethan tried to speak, but nothing came out but a strangled cry. The taste of his own blood numbing his tongue and his senses. His tears felt like molten light across his cheeks, and for a second he thought they would scar him.

“How do you know?”

In spite of his pain, he stood up, trying to breathe and to stand up as usual, even if everything felt as if made of shattered glass. He barely managed to sit in the bed, looking at the door and trying to not become undone. He wanted to close the door forever; he wanted Valerian to leave, even if he knew that would throw him into a bottomless pit of despair.

“Because you had countless chances to show your true nature, and you have only shown bravery, passion an-”

“NO”

His was the roar of a wounded beast, full of pain and terror. His broken voice even hoarser now more than ever, and his tears falling freely; as if everything in him has been transmuted into pain.

“It was all a lie. All of it. There is no shit like that. I am nothing like that. There is something bad in me. I cannot be loved. I am bad. And weak. And stupid. Worthless. I am worthless and everyone hates me but not if I HATE THEM FIRST”

His last roars were marked by the pain of his nails slashing his own skin. More of his own blood filling the air, now mixed with the holy scent of ashes and the salty tang of tears. he wanted to disappear, but he also wanted to go outside and run. He wanted to open the door and kiss Valerian, and he also wanted to make him go away forever. But instead of that, Ethan cried, each small gesture a source of suffering, all emotions becoming pain. 

“And you are the worst of all, Valerian” He cursed “You care and you listen and you make me think that things can be different. You behave like you’re the best, when you’re the fucking worst that has ever happened to me. I was fine until you decided to come into my life. I was fine until you started to fucking care”

Because that was the main problem, he thought: one day he was a rebel and a jerkass, and after one night he had become a part of something. He had started to think about someone else instead of just going along the motions. In each drop of blood was the realization that this was the first time in his life as an embraced that he had trusted someone who was not the fucking pervert. And that felt awful.

“You can leave if you wish”

Once more, the cold finality of Valerian’s voice startled him. There was the strained tone of tears, and there was no signal that the darkborn had moved. Until the unmistakable sounds of steps turning away from the door caused Ethan to panic; the surge of fear and hatred turning inwards, his inner monologue becoming a tattered mess of pleas and promises. Trembling, he stood up and opened the door aggressively, expecting the worst.

In the middle of the corridor, looking at him through a silent veil of tears, was Valerian. His face marked by sadness and ashes, somehow more angelic and dirty than ever before. The sight almost made Ethan roar in anger, but he was not able, too lost in the look of infinite sadness and worry that marked the face of his companion.

“Why do you hate me so much?”

His question sounded like a whine instead of a proper sentence. But it was sincere, it was the main and almost only thought in his mind. Because he felt as if Valerian did, as if he wanted him gone, as if he didn’t care at all, as if anything Ethan ever did was not good enough. He hated the darkborn, and he also didn’t want him to ever, ever leave.

“I have never hated you Ethan”

“Then why the fuck do you want me to leave?” He scoffed

Valerian shook his head “I do not want you to leave. I want…” He paused for a moment, sighing deeply “I want you to be happy, I want you to be free. I want you to be you”

Ethan looked down, more confused than ever “And who the fuck am I?”

He pressed his back to the wall, all anger and fury dissolving like ash in the rain. All of the things that had happened were barely dawning on his head, his body battered by both battle and emotional onslaught. He asked a question for which he had no answer, not even a simple glimpse of an idea. He looked into the room, seeing the portrait of himself that Valerian had put there in lieu of a mirror, and laughed bitterly.

“Ethan, you are an embraced. Brave, passionate, and courageous.”

“I don’t feel like anything of what you’ve said” He declared “I don’t feel like anything, really. Whoever you’re talking about wanted to live and get revenge on a fucking weirdo who did bad things to him. Me? I have no idea who I am.     Except that I am a worthless son of a bitch who somehow tricked you into this shitstorm”

The void in his heart returned, but subdued and less painful. As if a great weight had been lifted from his chest; and even if the distraught gestured of Valerian made him nervous, he felt way better, even if he felt empty. He said no more, and neither did the darkborn. Instead they just looked at each other, longing for an answer that neither had.

“I do not know what to do to help you” Valerian admitted, as if in pain.

“It’s not like you can actually do it, but...” he wondered, too tired to even gather a coherent thought “I prefer you controlling things, when you are behind all of this, instead of me. At least for now, I’m going cheap”

Ethan opened his arms, both as a way to release and as an invitation, and Valerian took it. They embraced, as closely as they could, still surrounded by confusion and pain and emptiness, but at least together. There were no answers, and a lot of questions in the air, but it felt as if a storm had been pushed for another day. A catastrophe averted by virtue of exhaustion on one part, and compassion on the other.

“We better try to sleep, it is almost dawn and you have been going around since sundown”

“Sure. Just… drive, pull my strings, tell me what the hell to do. I don’t know anything, except that I am yours to keep, princess”

Valerian sighed, almost smiling, and in their shared embrace, carried him to bed.

[parabuttai]

In All Things

aka the coffee shop, jurdan au I wrote in a hungover haze 

It’s a muggy, autumn day when their parents die. Jude didn’t see it happen, she was in the café playing hide and seek behind the sofa with her twin sister Taryn while Vivi, the oldest, painstakingly painted her nails a brilliant shade of red and kept a lenient eye on the pair of them.  The café was her parents pride and Jude loved everything about it, from the red, leather chairs smattered comfortably around the room, to the whipped cream covered hot chocolate her dad snuck to her and sisters when he thought mum wasn’t looking. She didn’t it happen, but she does see the tall man, in a black suit with a red pocket square enter, disregarding the “closed” sign on the door entirely.  His name is Madoc and he’s a lawyer.  Jude doesn’t really know what a lawyer is.  The one time she asked her mum left her know clearer.  What she does know is that he is also Vivi’s birth father, although her sister has only ever called their dad by that term.  They see him every so often at Christmas and Thanksgiving with his wife, Oriana. Today, he tells them that their parents are dead, and then he takes everything.

She can’t even hate him for it, not really.  Legally the rights to all the recipes, all the protocols, even the deal of the day sign, which Jude’s mother painstakingly painted belong to the Greenbriar’s and their lawyer Madoc is simply the tool by which they have claimed them.  The Greenbriar family owns the Greenbriar franchise which stretches across America in a multitude of coffee shops and cosy cafes, just like the one lovingly owned by their parents.  As soon as her parents are dead Madoc swoops in with a team of lawyers to reclaim the property and get it up and running under new management.   As well as taking the café he takes all the children in, his heir and her scrawny half- siblings.  Vivi sits in the front of his black BMW sober faced and silent but Jude and Taryn cry the whole way to their new home.  That night, when Jude’s curled up in bed, listening to the even sound of Taryn’s breathing from the twin bed across the room she imagines the crash, imagines Madoc’s face behind the wheel of the oncoming vehicle.   In her heart of hearts she knows that he wasn’t the one responsible for the crash, that he wasn’t anywhere near the intersection of the day a stupid kid was too busy looking at his phone to realise that he had swerved into the oncoming traffic.  Still, that didn’t make the sight of the heavy metal lettering spelling out “Duarte’s Café”, lovingly carved by her father’s hand being unceremoniously ripped from the space above the café and replaced by the cold, corporate logo of Greenbriar an any less bitter pill to swallow.  Nor does it make the big, busy town house feel any more like a home.  Slowly though, Jude adjusts to her new life.  Madoc and his pale wife Oriana are kind in their own stilted way and their son Oak has such a boundless enthusiasm for the arrival of three, new sisters that it makes it hard for Jude to resent the willingness with which she was taken into their family.

Vivi, however, finds no such peace.  She is a thundering torrent of range and resentment and as the years past her anger hones itself into something sharp and brutal. She screams and throws things, delighting in smashing whatever she can lay her hands on.  In desperation Madoc and Oriana send her to a fancy boarding school in the hopes that a new scene will assuage her anger but it takes only a month before she is sent home from the prestigious school and asked never to return there again.  Over the years her screams quieten and she stops smashing things, but Jude can sense the anger in her, bottled tight just beneath the surface.  It’s something of a relief when she arrives at dinner one evening, suitcase in hand, and announces she’s moving across town to live with her girlfriend Heather.  Taryn cries herself to sleep that night, rocked in Jude’s embrace until she falls into a fitful sleep.  It’s only her twin’s tears that stain Jude’s skin that night though, although she feel’s Vivi’s absence like the loss of a limb. The next morning she goes to Madoc and requests a job in the café.  He is inscrutable as he looks at her and although she gazes calmly back at him she wonders if he can sense the loss, the panic that crawls beneath her skin like a living breathing thing. Whether he can sense that she is unravelling like so many threads from a worn tapestry and she has no way to stitch herself back together. That is he says no it is she who will be lost next.   He says yes.

He puts her to work scrubbing dishes in the back with water so hot it scalds her hands and leaves her nails cracked and peeling. But although her hands are sore her heart is lighter than it’s been for several years and soon he is showing her how to balance multiple cups on her arm and the best way to tell when the milk is sufficiently heated to pour into a cappuccino. He has one of the chefs teach her how to make scones so soft they melt in your mouth and allows her to try her hand at painting the day’s deals onto the sign.  Her breathing is shaky, but her hand is steady and when she wipes a paint, splattered hand across her forehead and surveys her work she thinks that this might be enough.

However, although the work sooths her heart and sooths her soul, her colleagues do not.  Their waitress, Nicasia is a vain, self-absorbed girl with a tongue as sharp as the fresh marmalade they serve with the butter biscuits. Her mother is a world famous beautician who has little time for her only daughter apart from to offer criticisms disguised as complements, an art that Nicasia has also perfected.  She is accompanied by thuggish Valerian, who delights in violence and makes a habit of pinching at Jude when she’s carrying plates causing her to smash them on the ground until Jude viciously salts every meal he brings to work and he is forced to halt his campaign or go permanently hungry.  Worst of all is the manager, Cardan, a younger son of the Greenbriar family and is in charge of overseeing the establishment.  Cardan delights in sly taunts and makes it his mission to make Jude’s time there as miserable as possible.   He sneers as she makes cups of coffee and carries plates and does nothing to stop the constant digs that Nicasia and Valerian send her way.  He is not violent towards her like they are, preferring to make her uncomfortable by pinning her with his disconcerting gaze when she is working or giving her cups of coffee with insults scrawled on the takeaway cups. “Excruciating, alarming distressing,” each one an intelligent protest at her presence.  She smiles and drinks the coffee anyway and doesn’t let herself show the shame she feels.  He smiles a knowing smile, as though its written on her face anyway.

She doesn’t know what she’s done to earn his wrath, but he makes it clear that her very presence is an offence to him.

“You don’t belong here, Jude” he tells her pleasantly one day as though remarking on the weather.  “I don’t know why you don’t just give it up and go somewhere else.”  Jude stops still as though he has slapped her and at once, she is eight again and her parents are dead, and the café they made is dead with them.  

“I belong here every bit as much as you,” she hisses with as much venom as she can muster and Cardan blinks once, before grinning a lazy, cat like smile and sauntering off to take a waiting customer’s order.

She hates him.

Then they get a new recruit and she thinks her luck might be changing.  Locke is charming and handsome and seems genuinely interested in her. He makes her feel like a character from a story book, showering her with complements.  They stay up late together one night, drinking a cheap bottle of wine she borrows from Vivi and watching the stars.  Locke tells her the stories of the constellations, some so outlandish Jude is half sure he is making them up.  His lips are stained dark purple when he kisses her and she almost thinks she’s in love.  Turns out it’s not her he wants, but her sister.  They have been seeing each other too, Taryn confesses tearfully one day. She stands before the counter in the café, holding hands with Locke who is smirking while Valerian and Nicasia howl with laughter.  Jude’s eyes stare numbly at their intertwined hands and thinks of wine stains and stars and the memory turns to ash in her mouth.  Before she can lose any more of her dignity she sinks into one of the stools at the counter, pointedly ignoring Taryn until she finally leaves.  Strangely, Cardan has been strangely silent as the pantomime plays itself out.  A large group enters and he sends Nicasia to take their drink orders uttering his first words since Taryn had burst through the door with Locke in tow.  Valerian is summoned to fix an order that should have been tuna salad, but somehow ended up with cheese and then she is alone with Cardan. She cannot look at him, but she also cannot summon the energy to move.  Maybe if she sits there long enough she’ll be left alone until the end of her shift.  Maybe she’ll be fired.  She cannot bring herself to care.

 “Here.” It’s Cardan, he’s standing on the other side of the counter from her, cup of coffee in hand.  She can see the grinds at the bottom of the coffee machine and knows he has made it fresh.  Carefully, he slides the takeaway cup across the counter towards where she is slumped. The rich scent of coffee drifts pleasantly from inside. “I don’t need a cup of coffee,” Jude snaps angrily, shoving it roughly back towards him, unable to care about the dark scowl she can feel forming on her own face.  “What does it say this time, huh?  Disturbing, warped, fucking awful?  I’m not in the mood for any of your crap at the moment.”

“Just take it, little ant” sighs Cardan.  His face is carefully unreadable as he reaches across the counter and puts his hand on her clenched fist, pressing against where her fingers curled tightly around her thumb.  She is so startled by the touch of his hand on hers that she jerks back, fingers spreading as she recoils away from the warmth of his skin.  Before she can fully process what was happening he had placed the coffee cup into her hands, squeezing securely on top of her own hands as though he is afraid if he lets go she might hurl the cup back across the counter top like some insolent goblin.  Jude feels herself swallowing the insult on the tip of her tongue as the weight of those hands settle over her, almost like a comforting hug and for a moment she feels that small, bitter part of her heart that has been rising up as she thinks of Locke and Taryn twists.  Just as suddenly, his hands are gone, leaving her feeling cold despite the heating that warms the room.  “Take it and go home, Jude.” He says, his tone bored.  

“I can’t go home, I’ve still got another four hours left before I clock out.” She retorts, feeling unsettled at his sudden change in tone and manner.

“I’m the manager, remember?” He says archly, tapping on the badge affixed just under his right shirt collar.  “Get out of here.  I don’t need you in here snapping at the customers and driving off business with your star crossed woes.”

“Like you need any help scaring off customers with your attitude,” says Jude with a role of her eyes, relieved to find that she sounds harsh rather than sad. But she can’t stand the thought of finishing off the shift while Nicasia and Valerian titter over her pathetic love life so the offer is too good to be rejected, even if it has come from him.  “Thanks,” she mutters awkwardly at last, scuffing the tip of one of her converses on the floor as she hops down from the stool, adjusting her skirt with one hand while the other twisted the cup around to read the word “unique” scrawled in a familiar hand over the list of allergens.  She imagines him saying it, imagines his mouth drawing out each syllable but her body does not fill with the familiar flush of shame that normally accompanies his reminders that she doesn’t belong here.  “A little out of tune with your other jabs?” She says with her eyebrows raised.

Cardan does not deign to reply.  He has already turned his back to her to wipe down the nozzle of the steamer and acts as though the whole interaction hasn’t taken place, isn’t still taking place. Taking the hint, Jude strides towards the exit, cupping the drink tightly in her hands as she steps outside into the bite of the cold, winter air.  And if she tells herself the tingling in her hands is from the warmth of the coffee, nothing more, then that’s that.  There’s nothing more to it. Unconsciously, she lets her fingers trace the fine cursive lettering which runs down the side of the cup all the way home.  

Jude doesn’t see much of Cardan over the next few days.  She’s not scheduled to work at the café over the weekend so she spends most of her time avoiding Taryn, a job made easier by the fact that Taryn seems determined to avoid her too.  But eventually, it’s time for her to return to work.  She spends the day studiously avoiding Cardan’s gaze, determined When her back is turned she can feel dark eyes watching her.  The day is slow, and when night falls Cardan dismisses the rest of the staff claiming that he can deal with the last few customers on his own.  Jude is the last to leave, the sleeve of her coat is trapped in the locker and she is still struggling to remove it when Cardan comes in to the small cloakroom.

“Jude!” He exclaims. His eyes are wide and he looks briefly childlike in the half dark room as he stares at her in surprise.  Then, he gathers himself and the look is gone. She can almost see the shutters falling in his eyes.  “I thought you had left.” He says and it’s a statement, but it’s also a question and Jude finds herself wanting to answer even though she’s not sure what he’s really asking.  

She settles for “my coat’s stuck.”  Gesturing lamely to where the offending item of clothing is hanging limply.  He looks at her blankly.  

“Well then get it out,” he says as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world.  “I’ve never known you to be set back by something as trivial as a stuck piece of cloakroom equipment.  Are you sick?”  Jude rolls her eyes but at the same time she feels something warm settle in her stomach. Although his tone is acerbic Cardan has as good as offered her a complement.  

“I’m getting to it, your majesty.” She shrugs sarcastically.  She realises she’s made a mistake at once when he grins.

“Your majesty,” he pretends to ponder it, eyes glittering wickedly in the dim light.  “I like it.  I think I’ll make it my official title.  Much more fitting than manager.”

“I agree,” she snipes. “Manager implies you actually manage things here. Majesty is much more fitting for someone who sits around all day letting others do all the work.”

“Why would I want to manage anything when I’ve got you rushing around and making sure nothing falls apart?” He laughs.  “Far more entertaining for me to sit around and gossip with the regulars, although I don’t know why you put so much work into this place, you’re the only person here who cares about this dump.”

Jude bristles.  “This dump,” she snarls, “used to be something great, something precious, and I don’t want to see that go just because some spoilt brat can’t be bothered to manage it properly.”  She is so incensed she has her hand half raised to slap him before she regains control of herself.  He is staring at her, eyes wide at the outburst and his eyes flicker to her hand. She realises he is afraid she is going to hit him and she lets it drop limply to the side.   She’s better than that.  

To her surprise Cardan doesn’t start shouting, doesn’t leave.  He runs his hand through his dark hair, letting out a huff of air.

“I’m sorry,” he says and she feels her jaw drop.  “I always do this with you.  I can’t say the right thing, be nice, be better and so I say the worst possible thing instead.”  Jude regards him wearily but he continues.  

“I meant that you’re a great employee the place would be falling apart without you.”  The words fall heavily from his lips and he is staring at her, his eyes dark, and normally she would resent that stare but it feels different now.  She can tell it has cost him greatly to admit this to her, can see in his eyes that he is waiting for her to strike back now he has laid this out for her, now he has made himself vulnerable.  But she is no longer angry, and he seems to be able to read that in her face as the tension flows out of him.  

“You mean you think I’m better than Nicasia and Valerian?” She is unable to stop the question from flowing from her lips but he doesn’t pounce on it the way she expects.  Instead he shakes his head, laughter in his eyes and she imagines him sneering “you, better?  You barely belong.”

Instead he surprises her again by saying “you’re the best employee here.”  She looks at him suspiciously, but he seems sincere. Rather than push the cat and mouse game any further she returns to the loosening of her coat, deciding to ignore Cardan completely.  However, he stretches up his arms and his shirt, loose from the day’s work, rides up out of his pants revealing the hint of a tattoo on his left hipbone.

“Is that, a tail?” Jude gasps, reaching unthinkingly out to run her fingers over the sinuous, dark shape she can see peeking out over the top of his waistband.  

“It’s not a tail.” Cardan drawls, making no move to push her away.  “It’s an ouroboros, a symbol that dates back to the ancient Egyptians.”  

“You have a tail!” Crows Jude delightedly, ignoring his explanation in favour of examining the tattoo in more detail.  At a distance it looks a little like a circle but as she bends her head to inspect it more closely she can make out the fine, scaled pattern that runs through the length of it.  “I always said you were beastly, now I have the proof!”  As she speaks, she prods him firmly in the chest and turns to look at his face.  Her laughter stops abruptly.  Suddenly she realises just how close she has come, realises that her hand still lingers on his bare chest, how close they are together.   His eyes, always dark, are like pools of midnight as he stares down at her and she barely managed to supress a shiver. If Cardan is a beast, then he was one with sharp claws and wicked teeth and he wants to swallow her whole.

“By all means, continue your molestations,” he smirks “don’t mind me.  I’ll just stand here while you accost my personage.”  

“I’d like to see you spell personage,” mutters Jude, withdrawing her hand reluctantly from his firm chest.

“What was that, dearest one?” Cardan’s grin is mischievous as he continues to lean rakishly across the wall of lockers so that his stomach remains exposed.  He carelessly unbuttons one cuff, deliberately leaving the front of the shirt untucked as he continues to smile wolfishly at Jude.  Jude stares back, determined not to let him see how flustered she is by his naked flesh or the moment of intimacy they had just shared. She is satisfied to see him blink at her own, pointed look and he shuffles slightly on his feet, his abdomen tensing as he moves.  He doesn’t look away from her though, even as he starts to slowly tuck the shirt back into his pants.

“Don’t.”  For a split second Jude wonders if perhaps someone else has entered the small storage space and spoken.  Maybe Taryn has come to find her and has wondered in after them. Maybe she is going mad and have started to hallucinate.  Then the realisation that it was her own, treacherous mouth which had uttered the word sinks in.  She is startled to realise she doesn’t regret it.  That she is relieved she had said it.  The magnetic force that draws them together is pulling her down and there was only one way to assuage its demanding pressure.

“Don’t what, exactly?” Cardan asks and Jude is relieved to see that despite the levity in his tone his grin falters briefly at her word.  It is that, perhaps, more than anything else that gives her the courage to step forward and place her hands over his own, stilling them over his belt.

“I said,” she murmurs, leaning in so close that she can feel the force of his breath against her cheek. “Don’t, do that.” Her heart is pounding fast in her chest and she imagines that, if only she listened closely enough, she might hear Cardan’s heart beating ferociously in a matching, unrelenting rhythm with her own.  

“Jude.”  He whispers her name so quietly, so reverently that she isn’t sure she heard him.  Isn’t sure he’d even meant to say it aloud. There is something so heavy in the word that for a moment she feels her bravado fading leaving behind a crushing shyness that makes her want to flee, but even as her name falls from Cardan’s lips, he is lowering his face towards her and carefully, pointedly, pressing his lips to hers in a searing kiss.  Any thought of flight flees from her mind after that.  Despite his harshness, his kiss is soft, softer even than the sound of her name on his tongue and it is all Jude can do to stop herself from sinking into the feeling of him kissing her.  All thoughts of the Locke, of her sister’s betrayal leave her mind as he tentatively cups her face in his hands, deepening the kiss until the only thing she can do with any sense of certainty is kiss him back.  She does just that, snaking her hands under the bottom of his shirt to feel the heat radiating through his body as she offers hungry, greedy kisses of her own.  Finally, when she thought she was ready to burst from the lush, heady sensation of kiss he pulls back, lips swollen and eyes wine dark.

“What was that you said before about molesting?” She gasps and he lets out a sharp bark of laughter. He is breathing heavily against her and he grins broadly so the tips of his teeth glint in the light.

“That was hardly molestation, my little ant.  That was a full on debauching.” Cardan stretches out his arm and pulls her in an unwieldly motion so that she staggers to rest fully atop him.  If he releases her she will fall.  “I am a branch, swaying in the wake of your storm.  Have mercy, or I will be felled beneath your tempestuous whims.”  Jude laughs at the ridiculousness of the statement, at the ridiculousness of them. But as he kisses her again in the cloakroom of her parent’s café, she can’t help feeling like perhaps, just maybe she is home.

[avalxnce]

Went to see valerian today. Visually, absolutely fucking stunning I could have stared at it for the rest of my life. The script, dialogue, acting, storyline etc? Absolute garbage. The two leads had no chemistry. The guy was one of the worst actors I have ever seen. Cara delevigne was frankly not the worst which shows you how bad the guy was. Idk his name and tbh I don't want to. Valerian the character was a sexist asshole who constantly badgered lauraline (I think that was her name) into getting with him. Many many times she said no and that she didn't like him but he kept going. Of course she was all over him by the end even though he redeemed himself in no way whatsoever. Rihanna was cool tho I guess

[cassatine]

Some of my favourite things in Paradizac ville cachée, i.e. the comics!verse Valerian and Laureline novel (no translations out yet). there’s a lot of them. spoilers for the novels and the comics 

MY BABIES AT THEIR BEST

but also their sad best because...

it’s set post-Earth space!tramps era

it’s my favourite.era. but sad. since there’s no more Earth and two lone, guilt-wracked humans in the universe

and it’s set on Point Central, where bad things are afoot

(it’s Point Central, of course bad things are afoot, the place is teetering on the edge of chaos on any given day)

this time it’s the ultrarich who’d like to get rid of the space!government ConSec - inefficient (and dirty, and corrupted, and -) as it is it still restrains their mercantile ambitions 

#suble

the Shingouz. enough said. 

they’re the worst but you can’t help loving them

(case in point: Valerian “i”m the only one who can insult them”)

the bunch of characters from the comics making an appearance 

also literally every passage in which Valerian thinks about Laureline:

*Laureline recognizes a beethoven piece*: omg she’s so knowledgeable aaaah she’s the best

*Laureline talks someone into something*: that’s my girl aaaah she’s the best

*Laureline inflicts violence*: LOOK AT HER GO AAAAH SHE’S THE BEST

*Laureline enters deadly-circus-games arena*: i’m worried for her but then again she’s gonna own everyone aaaah she’s the best

*Laureline has an idea*: this is the best idea in the history of ideas aaaah she’s the best

*Laureline solves a mystery*: i will admire you forever

*Laureline waves at him*: my heart is bursting with joy

basically he swoons every time she does something

they’ve been together for years at this point and they’ve been through so much shit and they know the worst of each other and

[feelings]

“You were perfect”

“So were you”

i tears

so much hand-holding 

the crétiniseur de Phoum or dumbifier that Valerian uses - basically an anti-weapon

the sad checkup on Zahir the hollow planet - they might have escaped destruction but opening up to the galaxy didn’t make their lives any less miserable

#subtle

(let’s not even talk about Hell - not that one)

otoh Syrte is owning it

then again Syrte is nothing like Zahir which has little to offer

the Zools becoming incorruptible

until the Shingouz get there because deep down they’re the worst

every allusion to Earth-that-was hurts

it doesn’t help that humanity’s bad rep means no one’s sad about it bar our heroes

or that the Shingouz are happy to remind Valerian and Laureline whose fault it is

theirs

it’s brought up like three times

the Hypsis Trinity makes an appearance!

i don’t think i can adequately describe the Hypsis Trinity it needs to be read to be believed

The Kamunik and Blopikiens subplot stands for the everyday issues of Point Central - no bad guy or nefarious intent behind it, it’s a conflict between the members of two different cultures (rooted in shared values rather than differences, which makes for a change). Because even in Point Central (and on that note, it leans towards cultural pluralism rather than straight up multiculturalism) cultural tensions exist 

there’s the beauty of this series: it doesn’t disappear because The Future!; but people, be they humans or aliens, fight to make it work nonetheless, and Point Central, chaotic and full of inequalities as it is, stands for that - people trying and making it work

as much as the series is lauded for its sociopolitical commentary, the best thing about it is it doesn’t pretend to give you easy answers

there’s a throwaway line about the mixed heritage children of Point Central playing together and that’s Point Central, that’s why it’s worth defending, always

#subtle

i mean if there’s a moral to this specific adventure, it’s: democracy isn’t perfect but it’s worth protecting against the ultrarich but not only

#subtle

ACTUAL VALERIAN BACKSTORY OMFG

it’s only been decades without any he could have sprang up from the sea for all we knew

baby orphan grew up in boot camp and his life objectively sucked until Laureline 

so appropriate

[feelings]

i mean, characterization-wise, it makes so much sense

Valerian and Laureline’s hypnotic dreams that start out separate but even dreams can’t keep them apart and they join at the end. in Belle Epoque France. to dance.

the frenchness drips off the page

LINILIL

Valerian “i’m a reformist, not a warrior” i have so many feelings 

also that ties into why i’m always so annoyed when valerian is described as a typical action hero zipping around in space punching dudes for gr8 justice!! because dude, that’s missing the point by ten fucking miles

in-universe, he’s just not impressive. like at all. he’s regularly underestimated for it??? the not even pretty enough pretty boy to Laureline’s pretty girl

Na-Zultra terrorizing Valerian never gets old

Every allusion to Laureline’s backstory - oh yeah, she comes from the Middle Ages, but even though she’s adapted incredibly well to The Future (with zero jokes) she’s not blinded by technological progress or awed by the coolness of The Future, remaining critical, definitely not forgetting her roots and i could keep going on about how fucking much i love her ridiculous backstory and how it plays into her relationship with Valerian and there is no Born Sexy Yesterday here

(it’s not exactly intentional trope subversion and the series has its flaws but if there’s inequality in this relationship, it’s Laureline who comes on top no questions about it

and they both had as much impact on each other’s life - he brought her to the future and fundamentally altered her life, she made him look hard at the system he was part of, all the ugly bits he tried not to look at too hard, and fundamentally altered his life

[feelings])

also she was a unicorn at some point i did say her backstory was ridiculous

the ultrarich are punished by having to pay taxes and open up their gated community and they have to build playgrounds there 

other conspirators are basically similarly forced into... community work. long story short, the smuggler lord has to put his logistic know-how to the service of the community, the business tycoon with their (explosive) counterfeits is pretty much made to redirect her planet’s production

REFORMS NOT FIGHTS

AND STILL IT ENDS WITH A STRIKE

because you know, Point Central is still that very imperfect place full of inequalities and exploitation and tensions were boiling already

the strike works and things still aren’t perfect but they’re better nonetheless, and if the rich do keep on getting richer, at least they do so in ways more beneficial for the community and with some actual accountability 

[muggleriddle]

TOM RIDDLE SR FOR THE HEADCANON MEME AWW YEAH

YASSS. Under the cut because it’s a lot of stuff!

What does their bedroom look like?

Dark, because it’s horrible to convince him to open the damn curtains. It has a bed, I guess queen sized bed? Wardrobes, nightstands and a table by the window (the window, btw, has a view of the gardens of the Riddle house). It’s usually messy, but like… It’s a mess that makes sense to him, so, please, don’t try to organize it, because then he’ll never find his stuff if you take away his piles of papers and notebooks. His table is full of notebooks of all sorts, paper, objects he’s using as reference to draw, books and photos pinned to the wall.

Do they have any daily rituals?

He always takes a long time to get up in the morning; he’ll usually wake up and spend at least half an hour in bed before getting up. When he’s not feeling too down, he does change his clothes before going down (otherwise it’s the good ol’pajamas). He likes to take daily walks around the gardens and take this time to chat with Frank Bryce, the gardener. At night, he usually checks if the doors of the house are locked at least twice. He likes to be able to practice the piano everyday too.

Do they exercise, and if so, what do they do? How often?

He rides on his horse, around three times a week if he’s not feeling down. He used to go swimming in the sea, at Hornsea, when he was younger, but he’s stopped doing it after the Merope fiasco.

What would they do if they needed to make dinner but the kitchen was busy?

Depending on his mood, he’d either go out to eat or steal some crackers or bread just to ignore being hungry or simply go without eating until the kitchen was free for him to use.

Cleanliness habits (personal, workspace, etc.)

As stated above, his workplace and room are messy, but not dirty. Well, you have paint stains and spots everywhere but that’s because he’s a mess when painting. He’s alright with personal hygiene, bathe and shaves everyday etc etc… All of this, though, is when he’s actually feeling okay. When he’s in one of his blue moods, he’ll probably stop organizing his room, forget about changing from pajamas, forget about bathing, shaving, etc. When the depression bus hits, everything feels just too much for him.

Eating habits and sample daily menu

Tom’s eating habits are shit. He usually forgets to eat, either because he’s too focused on something else or because he’s not hungry or because the effort of getting out of bed to eat is too much. When he eats, its not much. Sometimes he has this thing of staying awake throughout the night and raiding the biscuit jar at three in the morning. (btw, when he was a kid, his mum never allowed him to eat biscuits at night and his dad had this thing for saying that ‘if you’re not at the table when we’re eating, then you won’t be eating until the next meal’ Thomas never carried this threat all the way through though). He loves tea and is not too used to drinking coffee. He’s not munch of a drinker (regarding alcoholic stuff), but he can be a happy drunk if he drinks more than idk two or three glasses of wine.

Favorite way to waste time and feelings surrounding wasting time

Drawing, painting, reading and playing the piano when he’s feeling productive. Just lying down on a couch/bed when he’s feeling bad. The productive waste of time is well accepted by him; the ‘I’m feeling like shit and therefore can’t move from this couch’ waste of time is something he hates.

Favorite indulgence and feelings surrounding indulging?

… spending a lazy day in bed? sleeping until the afternoon? stay the whole night awake (being productive) and then sleep throughout the next day?

Makeup?

He doesn’t wear it, but I believe Mary Riddle must have tried to hide his dark circles with powder or foundation when they went out, but like, just on the first few months after the Merope fiasco. As the years went by, she just got used to it.

Neuroses? Do they recognize them as such?

Afraid of leaving the doors of the house unlocked, looking outside the window 198298382 times during the day just to see if there’s anyone lurking around the house, trying to listen to someone approaching his room at night, afraid of going out, nervous af when confronted with crowds of people or when alone with women.

Intellectual pursuits?

Tom is the perfect Gemini: he loves to know at least a little about everything. He loves learning, but his attention spam usually drifts to something new after he starts to dive into a subject. He does manage to study art and music (by himself and with his mother’s help) more than other subjects, though. He dreams of going to art school and working with illustration, but is too scared of trying to do so.

Favorite book genre?

Fantasy.

Sexual Orientation? And, regardless of own orientation, thoughts on sexual orientation in general?

Demisexual.

Physical abnormalities? (Both visible and not, including injuries/disabilities, long-term illnesses, food-intolerances, etc.)

Myopic (doesn't wear glasses bc is done with putting his fingers on the lens and having the glasses falling off his face). Depression, anxiety, PTSD. Scar on his right knee (from a bad scrap on it at 13) and on both wrists (suicide attempt at 21).

Biggest and smallest short term goal?

Smallest: finish a painting or learning a new piece on the piano;

Biggest: being able to go out of the house without feeling the need to go back inside at every second when he sees someone/when he’s around other people;

Biggest and smallest long term goal?

Biggest: art school

Smallest: traveling to somewhere that is not London or Great Hangleton, maybe visit Scotland;

Preferred mode of dress and rituals surrounding dress

Pajamas are his favourite outfit. But I always see him wearing pants + shirt + a sleeveless sweater (I guess it has stuck with me from the time I used to have an askblog of his and I always drew him like that). He hates wearing ties and always keeps his sleeves rolled above his elbows.

Favorite beverage?

Non-alcoholic: tea… chamomile and valerian tea.

Alcoholic: it’s a tie between wine and vodka.

What do they think about before falling asleep at night?

It depends on how he’s feeling. If he’s been reading before bed, he’ll most likely think about the book he’s been reading. If he’s not feeling well, Merope Gaunt is a recurrent thought during the night (he’s afraid of dreaming about her and ends up, surprise! having a nightmare about her).

Childhood illnesses? Any interesting stories behind them?

He was a pretty strong kid, like, he didn’t get too many colds or flus or whatever. He must have had chicken pox. Ah, he used to have quite a few earaches.

Turn-ons? Turn-offs?

Turn on: hands, man, he really loves hands. Also, any reaction from his partner… he pays attention to the person’s breathing or how their skin has goosebumps and he loves it. His partner showing pleasure is a turn on for him. People being all passionate while playing an instrument. And pretty underwear. And if he already trusts his partner a whole lot, Tom’ll actually admit he kind of enjoys being a lil sumissive to them, some softcore BDSM is a thing he enjoys although he doesn’t really realize it.

Turn off: anything that may remind him of Merope Gaunt*

Given a blank piece of paper, a pencil, and nothing to do, what would happen?

Drawings, drawings everywhere.

How organized are they? How does this organization/disorganization manifest in their everyday life?

See the question about his room and his organized mess.

Is there one subject of study that they excel at? Or do they even care about intellectual pursuits at all?

He’s really good at arts and music. He used to study human anatomy for fun and because it helped him drawing the human figure, so he has a good knowledge of it. He is kind good at maths, but doesn’t like it.

How do they see themselves 5 years from today?

If he’s still alive, that’ll do.

Do they have any plans for the future? Any contingency plans if things don’t workout?

See above the art school plan. Part of him also wanted to have a family, have kids and all, but he’s too scared of doing so.

What is their biggest regret?

Accepting Merope’s invitation to have a cup of tea and abandoning Merope (he regrets it but at the same time he doesn’t? He’s scared af of what happened, but he feels guilty about it).

Who do they see as their best friend? Their worst enemy?

I have this two OCs I created for a fanfiction, one is a friend of his from his time at Eton, his name is Charles Campbell. They were almost like Harry and Ron at school. And the other is Charles’ wife, Ellen, who is a nurse and who he met while studying Architecture at London (he dropped off thanks to the Merope fiasco). His worst enemy is… himself? He sabotages himself a lot and his fear and anxiety fuck things up for him.

Reaction to sudden extrapersonal disaster (eg The house is on fire! What do they do?)

It depends??? He can have those boosts of bravery sometimes, but it really depends on the situation??? He can either have the fight response or the freeze response.

Reaction to sudden intrapersonal disaster (eg close family member suddenly dies)

Again, depends, it can be the fight or the freeze response. I think it’s most likely for him to dissociate and have this terrible freezing response that’ll eventually take him down the depression and anxiety lane.

Most prized possession?

His sketchbooks and a snuffbox that belonged to his grandfather (he used to have a pocket watch that his father gave him when he graduated Eton, but he sold it while under the effect of the Amortentia and doesn’t remember; he thinks he just lost it).

Thoughts on material possessions in general?

I… don’t know? He’s a little possessive with his own stuff. And he’s hoards notebooks, sketchbooks, books, old drawings etc. He has difficulty letting go of some stuff.

Concept of home and family?

Home is where he feels comfortable at and family are those he consider as so. In some fics, I write him thinking of Row as family even though they’re not married or anything. Silly information: it’s instintive of him to think of Tommy as family the first time they meet… too bad Tommy doesn’t think the same way;

Thoughts on privacy? (Are they a private person, or are they prone to ‘TMI’?)

He loves privacy. His room is his place and please knock before entering, don’t go looking into his notebooks without asking permission, don’t enter his personal bubble before he feels comfortable with it.

What activities do they enjoy, but consider to be a waste of time?

Sometimes, drawing. He always has this inner conflict about ‘is this really useful?’ when it comes to drawing and painting. Also, sleeping.

What makes them feel guilty?

The whole Merope Gaunt thing; not being able to be the person people expected from Mary and Thomas’ son; living with his parents at the age of 38; not achieving anything at the age of 38; etc.

Are they more analytical or more emotional in their decision-making?

Emotional.

Would they consider themselves a Type A or Type B personality?

Type B.

What recharges them when they’re feeling drained?

Sleeping, a long bath, painting, playing the piano, watching the sea, sitting in the garden or just staying in a silent place all by himself.

Would you say that they have a superiority-complex? Inferiority-complex? Neither?

Inferiority-complex. His self esteem is horrible.

How misanthropic are they?

He’s… not misanthropic? Not at all.

Hobbies?

Drawing, playing the piano, reading, horse back riding, walking on the garden or on the beach.

How far did they get in formal education? What are their views on formal education vs self-education?

He graduated high school (I don’t remember the term for it in the English educational system sorry), but never finished university (he started to study architecture and dropped out).

Religion?

I think he’d be officially protestant but he couldn’t care less for it? It’s been years since he last went to a mass that was not a funeral or a wedding. I guess you can consider him an agnostic.

Superstitions or views on the occult?

He’s waY INTO IT! He has always been interested in this kind of stuff, growing up hearing folk stories about faeries and witches, but after Merope, he became really scared of it… at the same time, these stuff still fascinates him. Which is a real struggle for him.

Do they express their thoughts through words or deeds?

He says he’s terrible with words, so he tries to paint or play music to try to express himself. Depending on the person he’s with, he can be good with words, although he tends to start talking and talking and talking and forgets to stop.

If they were to fall in love, who (or what) is their ideal?

Someone who makes them feel comfortable and safe. He needs to trust the person and vice versa. He needs to be able to spend time with them, be it making out, having sex or just talking about what’s the size of the dragon Smaug in The Hobbit? and other Very Serious Subjects like that.

How do they express love?

He likes to hold hands. And hug, but he needs to feel really comfortable with you in order to allow himself to touch you or be touched by you. Sometimes he’ll start to talk about you and how you’re important to him and lose himself in his words. He likes to give gifts to people, drawings done by him or a song he learned how to play because he knows you like it. If you catch him looking at you with a silly look on his face and a dumb smile, he’s sold to you. He also likes to share his interests: he’ll show you his favourite poem, his favourite book, he;ll ask you to play something with him on the piano, etc.

If this person were to get into a fist fight, what is their fighting style like?

He’s terrible at fighting. He’d punch the person and then realize he’s just broken his hand because god damn it he doesn’t know how to throw a punch.

Is this person afraid of dying? Why or why not?

Nope. He’s more afraid of living. As his favourite poet once said:

In this lifeit’s not difficult to die.To make lifeis more difficult by far.                       

*if, by any chance, he meets a nice witch or wizard that makes him feel safe and comfortable, their magic won’t scare the shit out of him… okay, at the beginning, yes, but he can learn how to understand and appreciate magic (talking about a TomRow context here)