#writing tag: method

[crookedghosts]

writing in an au is so fun cause sometimes you get hit with something SO CANON like "percabeth hosts capture the flag with their entire wedding party when they all arrive for the wedding" that you have to pivot and rework the entire back half of the fic just to make that happen

[cuubism]

tagged by @the-apocrypha in last line tag game :)

writing nonsense for math universe again:

--

He writes the next line of his proof, relishing in the hitch of Hob’s breath at the scratch of the pen. Hob’s skin looks pretty, he thinks, adorned with these fragments of the universe, but prettier just as he is. Though Dream does like putting his mark on him.

“Genius at work,” Hob muses, looking at him from under his lashes. “That’s sexy. D’you know how sexy you are?” “‘Sexy,’” Dream grumbles, as he writes another line on Hob’s chest. “Fucking hot. D’you remember when we met? When you behaved like an absolute twat about me ‘stealing’ your classroom?” Dream remembers it well. He remembers how overwhelming Hob's presence was from the very start. “It was my classroom,” he says. “Um, according to the university schedule, it was mine.” “We’ve had this argument already,” Dream says. “What were you saying?” “Well, you told me to go fuck myself—which, by the way, I think I’ve heard you use that word maybe five times in the whole time we’ve known each other, so you really must have been flustered—” he seems very pleased at this— “anyway, you told me to go fuck myself and I really almost said ‘I’d rather you did it.’ I think the fact that the undergrads were already getting to class is the literal only thing that stopped that coming out of my mouth.” Dream… did not know this. And Hob is just grinning at him. “What would you have said?” he asks. “I would have run away,” Dream admits, and Hob laughs.

--

tagging @arialerendeair, @im-not-corrupted, @omgcinnamoncakes if you want :)

[b4kuch1n]

crumbs in your bed

transcript

[inafieldofdaisies]

WIP Whenever (since I'm a few hours late for Wednesday) | Tagged by @simonxriley @socially-awkward-skeleton @corvosattano @direwombat @the-silver-chronicles @marivenah @shellibisshe

We're returning to John and Sabrina's AU this midweek and jumping into quite the scene with no other but Candice after John runs into her at his their hotel lobby. Miss Donovan absolutely insisted on this being from her POV, she can't be refused.

"Reginald, we will be making a stop on the way. Where are you headed, Mr. Duncan?" Candice couldn't help but smirk at the obvious discomfort the man next to her was exhibiting upon climbing in after her and putting as much distance between them as humanly possible. The fact he wasn't quick to give out an address to her driver only further confirmed he might be having seconds thoughts about accepting her offer. A little too late. This is bound to be fun. Her plan was back in motion from the moment she had spotted him in the lobby, refusing to let such a perfect opportunity pass by despite the fact she had prior engagements that demanded her attention. Keeping taps on Mooney's defense strategy had become a personal hobby, making his life in prison while he awaited the inevitable even more so. You're about to regret the day you crossed a Donovan, Nathaniel. Deeply. She doubted getting information out of someone like John Duncan and perhaps even steering him in the direction she wanted would be that much of a challenge, quite the opposite: she could already foresee each step she needed to take to a point she felt somewhat… bored. Nostalgic over a past long gone. Over the only person that used to have her heart racing and knew her better than she knew herself.

Yet she had no time to dwell on any of it, not when her current target had finally figured out that with the car speeding down the street he had no choice but to reveal the destination he was in such a rush to get to. I will be damned. "…Brentwood St.", John finished casually reciting the address, seeming completely unaware of how with a couple of words he had given her enough ammo to not only have his freshly-acquired title as Partner stripped away but have him potentially disbarred altogether. Luckily enough, she had other uses for him before things would get to the stage where he'd be contemplating a new career path. The triumph at the idea Mooney's new attorney was making far from an innocent late night visit to a person that without shadow of a doubt be on the witness list and important to the prosecution was short-lived. Curiosity swooped in its place upon realizing her own daughter was on the receiving end of whatever risqué plans John had in mind and the sole reason he was breaking a golden rule. Reginald's gaze met hers in the rearview mirror and she could tell he had come to the same conclusion about the stop they would be making, same place he'd driven her to one too many times. Her quick nod had him raising the privacy screen without uttering a word before she shifted until her body was aligned with the man next to her and she crossed her legs, not missing the way his eyes darted down to the sliver of skin her dress offered, "I heard your client got in quite the trouble at his new home, darling."

"I'm not at liberty-" "To discuss it?", she let out a laugh, "All work and no play isn't that much fun, Mr. Duncan. You eventually come to realize that." She didn't let the fact her remark was met by silence from his side discourage her- his instincts might have been screaming he was walking into a minefield, but dropping down his guard was inevitable. "Are you worried how it might look at the trial? So unfortunate of him to keep misbehaving like that while still insisting on his innocence and facing the danger of rotting in a cell for the rest of his life." Her smile was sickly-sweet as she let her expression brim with compassion for the task bestowed upon him, yet deep down all the misteps Mooney had made during his incarceration- the fork incident being one of many the prosecutors could pick from, brough her utmost joy. "I see no love has been lost here.", John retorted, attempting to sound nonchalant in hope she'd reveal her cards before he had to address his client. All she offered him was another loaded look as she swooped her hair off her shoulder and changed the subject, "How's the hotel been treating you, Mr. Duncan? Or better yet, Portland?" "I've had less eventful work trips." "Ah, way to make me curious. Is this your first time in town?" "Yes.", he paused, "Is this where you offer to show me the sights?" She quirked up an eyebrow, "Are you asking?" His blue gaze narrowed at her flirtatious tone, "Answering my question with a question. Shouldn't have expected anything else."

"Indeed, darling. And what about 310?" "Excuse me?" The confusion that met the number won another hearty laugh out of her, "Room 310 has been giving you trouble, as Julie put it. I couldn't help but overhear." "Giving me trouble? I'm afraid you misheard her, Ms. Donovan. She said 510." Her marriage to a detective and years spent in court dealing with both the guilty and innocent had taught her to read people to a point it had become an instinct. Everyone had a tell when lying, their body language always offered more than their careful answers, and she had been observing his since their first 'accidental' meeting. No matter how small his tells were, she didn't miss the way his lips pursed as he parroted back her question, how his eyes darted before focusing on hers once more- John was doing his hardest to deceive her again, convince her she had heard wrong instead of caught him in a lie. "Is that so?", she cocked her head to the side, "Shame, would have meant we're neighbors." They were in fact neighbors- one call to the front desk was all it had taken to figure out his room number and confirm the hunch she had about him avoiding her while also providing an insight into the source of the frustrated noises and curses carrying over in the middle of the night from the room next to hers.

She leaned in closer, close enough she could whisper in his ear as her hand landed on his knee, "510 sounds a lot like my 309 neighbor… keeping me up at late hours and not in the way I like it." His bated breath urged her hand to travel upward, her test put in motion while actual seduction was nowhere on her agenda for the evening, yet the fact he was headed to see Sabrina left her with no choice. She had to know, to figure out what mess her daughter had found herself in, if she was wasting time on someone whose loyalty was as fleeting as his code of conduct. "Next time you find yourself unable to sleep…", her words drifted off just as she made it to his zipper. ...You won't be visiting my Sabrina, that's for certain. It was then that his fingers snaked around her wrist to stop her advance, "I'm not interested." "Hmm? No?", she let the question hang in the air between them, giving him a chance to change his mind and prove her right, "An honorable man, Mr. Duncan. Nothing I respect more." Candice backed away with that, resuming her previous position like nothing had happened, smirking at the small sigh of relief that escaped him. Her hand rose and gently knocked on the glass separating them from her driver, "Reginald, how far are we from Mr. Duncan's destination?" The emphasis she put on the last part flew over John's head as he matched her small smile that didn't stay on his face long, "Not too far, Miss, but traffic is moving slower than usual, seems there was an accident of sort. Could be a while longer." Her smirk only widened when he whispered under his breath, "My fucking luck." Your unlucky night is quite lucky for me, Mr. Duncan. What a better way to find out more about the person trying to charm my eldest daughter and no doubt use her to free a guilty man...

Tagging, @strangefable @florbelles @unholymilf @purplehairsecretlair @aceghosts @onehornedbeast @thesingularityseries @cassietrn @theelderhazelnut @voidika @nightbloodbix @macs-babies @finding-comfort-in-rain @carlosoliveiraa @josephslittledeputy @josephseedismyfather @vampireninjabunnies-blog @trench-rot @la-grosse-patate @wrathfulrook @fourlittleseedlings @jackiesarch and anyone with something to share this week <3

[pygian-weapon]

the real question is, where will all the asian artists migrate to

[aquanutart]

an upside-down truth / a fallen star

[bykalopsia]

also i am Not discussing ishiro and genba this episode bc if i think about them and taiya Too Hard i will maybe fall into pieces.

[ariadne-mouse]

So with Mercaleb being over for a while now, I’ve felt a bit bereft as an author and found myself working on my next project pretty quickly.  I wanted to explore the wizards through a different lens, as I do, but with Caleb once again taking the form of the Other contrasted to Essek.  Mercaleb, Volcaleb — this is definitely one of my jams.  I hope you will enjoy the start of something new!

The title is from William Cullen Bryant's A Forest Hymn.

(~1400 word snippet, shadowgast, rated G for now)

.

the groves were god's first temples

The night was dark, and the windows of Essek’s office were speckled with water droplets, each pane a portrait of the rain’s ever-changing visage as it peered in at the room’s lone occupant.

Essek of Den Thelyss worked by candlelight, and by magelight, comfortable with the dark and yet preferring illumination as he bent to his studious labors: a spell theorem that could unlock a new sub-branch of dunamancy.  A fire in the hearth warmed his back.  A cup of tea steamed at his elbow, hot only due to refreshments of Prestidigitation.  Essek had not arisen from his chair in several hours.

“It’s really quite simple,” Essek said aloud, tone edged in frustration. “I don’t see why you must persist in seeking complications.”

For Essek was not truly alone, whatever it might appear to an outside observer.  He was never alone here in the study, the sanctum sanctorum of his tower.

“Let us begin again,” he continued. “Beginning with the Principle of Infinite Division, which is the concept that there are a limitless number of divergences from any given point in time, and thus the isolation of a single timeline thread in continuity carries with it the complications of having to specify infinite selections within an infinite number possibilities.”

He paused, letting the words sink in.

The potted plant on his desk listened serenely, the green faces of each leaf gleaming handsomely.  This was a being of the sunlit hours, displaced in the eternal darkness of Rosohna, requiring specialized care and constant light.  A mark of status.  But for Essek, it was someone to talk to.  

Well — something.  Of course.

Merely something.

It didn’t feel that way, though; it was the strangest phenomenon.  It felt as though his words were being heard, and understood.

He had dreams, sometimes, where it answered him.

Essek cleared his throat.  “As you can surmise, this represents a challenge if you wish to locate a specific timeline in its entirety.  Now, if I can craft a formulaic element to the incantation or inscription — a repeatable recipe, if you will — I could solve the selection process without having to account for each of these divisions individually.  Namely, by identifying a unique signature that is ascribable to multiple points within it—”  He trailed off, and sighed.  “I’ve lost you again, haven’t I.  Here, let me better illuminate you.”

He beckoned several magelights — amber-colored, as the last afternoon sun — to hover closer to it, lips quirking wryly at his own joke.  

Was it his imagination, or did the leaves turn to seek the light?

“You are very patient with me,” Essek said.  “I have been preaching to you all day, and still you endure it.  I know what I mean, but when I say it aloud, I hear all the faults of each idea.”  

The tree rustled, as if to reassure him.  

It was probably just his sleeve brushing the branches — almost assuredly — almost — but he nodded in acknowledgement, feeling touched and a little chagrined.  “I know, I know.  It takes time.  You are constantly teaching me this.”

Carefully he tested the top of the plant’s pebbled soil with his fingertips, and then lifted the container from its dish to see its base, and found no chill of moisture in the sturdy clay. 

“Ah!  I am neglecting you, as well.  I am sorry.”

The remnant of his tea, made cold with the wave of a hand, went into the pot.

Essek leaned on his palm, maudlin.  “My theorem is a bit like you.  It started small and unrestrained, and over time has grown and been pruned and trained and refined until it is something worth looking at.  An elegant echo in miniature of a larger concept.  Or at least, that is what it is supposed to become.  I wonder, is there a Dwendalian tree somewhere in the Empire that looks like you, but as tall as a tower?”

It truly was a beautiful thing, a tree tricked by skilled gardeners into staying absurdly small, and yet lasting centuries, turning colors or bearing fruit as a full-sized tree might.  It was currently fashionable for Kryn nobility to own at least one.  His mother had a garden full.

“Maybe I’m wasting my time,” Essek sighed, rotating the pot with restless fingers, a centimeter at a time.  The tree was lovely from every angle.  “Maybe I am all tangled up in my own ideas, roots snarled together, strangling my own progression.  Maybe I’m not a prodigy after all, and my critics are right about me.  Maybe— oh!”

A bright crimson-orange flower had interrupted his vision of greenery.  Diminutive but striking, its petals were ruffled in an imitation of flame.  Had it been there before?  

Essek dared to touch the bloom and found it whisper-soft.  “Is this for me?”  He smiled and looked down at the desk. “Thank you.”

He didn’t let himself be vulnerable in public, especially not with his peers at the Marble Tomes.  Encouragement was usually concealing condescension, and praise, envy, and Essek had no appetite for these poisoned gifts.

Here, though, speaking to his quiet listener, he could be imperfect.  He could make mistakes, and be treated with grace.  Free of judgment. 

He traced the edge of the flower one more time, then took a breath, emboldened.

“Alright.  Starting once again, from the beginning.  Once we accept the Principle of Infinite Division, a challenge in identifying a single timeline occurs when—”

The rain pitter-patted on the windows, as though the night was curious too about how Essek’s research was progressing and wished to listen in.  The low murmur of Essek’s voice mingled with the crackle of the hearth, the space warm, and though Essek was alone, he was not lonely.

Hours passed.  The fire grew low, and the candles short. 

Essek was slumped on the desk, head pillowed on one arm, and the other loosely circling the base of the potted tree, knuckles resting against cool ceramic.  His magelights had gone out a while ago and he had not recast them.  A few fresh pages of scribblings were scattered around him.  A few had fallen to the floor among a modest graveyard of crumpled rejects.

His eyes were closed, neither fully trancing nor true-sleeping, but a hazy mixture of both in which reality felt surreal and soft-edged.  A well-earned doze after his academic fugue: he had made progress.

He was not alarmed when there was the muted susurrus of a throw blanket unfolding, nor the weight of it coming to rest on his shoulders.  He accepted these things each as they happened, feeling content.

“It’s me,” came a low voice, pitched soft as a midnight breeze through new leaves.  

“I know,” Essek said sleepily, eyes still closed.  “I always know when it’s you.”  

Fingers carded through his hair.  “Resting at your desk again?  I hope it is because things are going well.”

“It is,” Essek answered. “I have been using the method you suggested.”

“Oh?”

With a yawn, he straightened up and opened his eyes.

Caleb was there, leaned against the desk, looking down at Essek with fondness crimping his expression, his red hair turned bronze by the glowing embers in the hearth.  He looked travel-weary and wonderful.

Essek took up Caleb’s hand and held it to his cheek, just because he could. “Yes, I have been explaining the concepts aloud, as if to an ignorant audience.”  He indicated the potted miniature tree next to Caleb’s hip.

Caleb nodded sagely, eyes twinkling.  “Ah, and is our green friend here now fully educated in the Principle of Infinite Division?”

“He’s getting there,” Essek replied.  Then he tugged gently on the hand he held captive, turning his face up to Caleb as a morning flower does the sun.  “Now, come here.”

Caleb smiled, and went.

.

(Happy April Fools! 😁💜🌳)

(also the bonsai is a dwarf pomegranate and would not be "as tall as a tower" in the Empire. Essek knows nothing about botany except where it crosses into alchemy.)

[hermitw]

Complaint that the best thing I've ever written might be this fic where Sukuna's milk-dripping tiddies save us from the shibuya incident

[crookedghosts]

beware yall chapter 4 WILL be hitting you in the "real or not real" feels. I am weaving a web as intricately as Leo has woven his lies (disasterously, gayly). characters will be thrown into this mess and misunderstandings will be had. I'm not sorry 🫡🫡

[fragmentedblade]

Ratio isn't just socratic nor is his method just socratic. There's a lot of sophist too, with how he is paid and the Genius Society looks down on that.

[starpirateee]

@scripted-downfall a continuation? To the Curt falls au? You bet! You know how much of a freak I am for good quality angst, especially when it involves these two!

"Cynthia, there's an MI6 agent waiting for you outside." 

It wasn't often that anyone caught Cynthia at a good time. She was an incredibly busy woman, and that often meant that everything she did was held up in some kind of queue. 

Owen had been told this in brief when he'd quietly requested to see her, but he'd insisted that he could wait. He had to. He owed Curt this much. 

Barb had insisted he come back with her, since he was so desperate to give Cynthia the news himself. He was very much fine with the idea of calling her, especially since seeing her in person would be such a difficult ordeal, but Barb had suggested talking to her in person until the idea became vaguely imprinted in his mind. Then he couldn't let it go, even though he knew it was the wrong direction to take this in.

He'd been trying to hold himself together for hours. His heart had broken when the facility had fallen, and he felt like he'd been left with a tiny bucket, trying to get it all into shape again before he cracked in front of Curt's goddamn boss of all people.

He was close enough that he could hear the conversation in Cynthia's office, and he leaned in a little closer to catch it, absently running a hand through his hair to make himself look more presentable. God, he really hoped he wasn't still covered in brick dust...

"MI6? What the hell do they want?" Cynthia asked, and then paused in her tracks. "Who even is it?" 

"He called himself Carvour?"

"Oh..." she hummed like that was in some way surprising, her expression softening. MI6 never wanted anything good, and the fact that most of them travelled in to give their official business made most of them worse. Knowing it was Owen changed things a little. Not a lot, he could still have been sent by his superiors just because he was in the area, but enough to make her reconsider how snappy she was going to be... 

Then, she remembered that he had been on that mission with Curt, so he couldn't possibly have come with anything like that. Her expression softened ever so slightly. "Let him in."

Owen heard that and just about managed to stand and straighten himself up before Susan opened the door and stood aside to let him in. "Agent..."

"Thank you..." He wandered in through the open door, looking to his best ability like he was here for a purpose that hadn't already caused him that much heartbreak. All semblances of professionalism had been completely eradicated when he'd come out of there bleeding and broken but very much still alive.

Why? It had been a string of convneiences that had gotten him to where he was right now. Luck, or chance, or something else he didn't fully believe in. He was the only one left, out of dozens of agents working the facility. There were razor blades in his throat, dust clogging his airways, and a deep, inescapable feeling of emptiness pitted up in his chest, but he was alive, wasn't he?

Getting out had never felt like such a curse before.

"Owen? What happened to you, you look like shit..."

Hearing Cynthia's voice again brought him out of his thoughts, and hearing the door close behind him brought him back to the present. He was trying to keep a sturdy grip on reality, so he could stay here, in this conversation he was about to have with Cynthia. He didn't care if he faded out later, but right now, it was imperative that he was as present as he could be.

"Hello, Miss Houston..." He managed. His throat was still dry, but at least speaking didn't hurt as much as it had a few hours ago. He watched Cynthia frown, her brow drawing together.

"God, you sound like shit too... Need something strong? Whiskey?"

"Please..."

Susan brought the decanter, and Cynthia pulled two glasses from a tray behind her, filling them both with the amber liquid, and the air with the fiery scent of it. 

Owen took his glass with a grateful nod, and almost relished in the way the first sip burned all the way down his throat. It didn't make that particular situation any better, but he'd already lost the comfortable facade; he supposed it couldn't exactly get much worse.

"Okay, so what's the deal?" Cynthia asked, leaning back in her chair. "What brings you all the way out to Washington?" Her voice was surprisingly soft, for her standards. She'd registered the change in accent, realised she'd never heard Owen sounding quite like that before, and came to the conclusion that something particularly awful had to have happened.

"I've come to make a report." Owen answered simply, hoping for all it was worth that she hadn't picked up on his breath starting to run short. At the end of the day, did it really matter if she blamed him for Curt's death? He was already there, what was one more person? 

And it wasn't like it was untrue, as far as these things went...

She raised an eyebrow. "You do realise this isn't your agency, right, Carvour?"

"I know. But I'd rather you heard this from me than anyone else. It's about Curt..."

"What did he do this time?"

"No, it's... Not about what he did... I lost him. He's dead." Best to be out with it quickly, he supposed. He sighed, just waiting for her reaction. Every passing second was one more where the deep pit of residing anxiety got worse. Where he felt more and more hot pricks at his eyes. Where his guilt started to rack up on itself and morph into real, genuine grief. Hearing himself say those words wasn't right. Curt should be here right now. The two of them should be returning the blueprints together.

Cynthia fell silent for a little longer than Owen cared to admit was comfortable. "What happened?"

"There was... A miscalculation on the explosives timers. We were cornered by a group of agents, but when they went off, we had a chance to escape. One of them- the explosives, that is- went off while we were running. Curt fell. I couldn't reach him in time."

Had that come out faster than he'd intended? Did any of that even make sense? He held his breath, hoping that she had at least grasped part of it.

She nodded slowly, seemingly understanding. He knew she'd never really had the greatest affinity for Curt. Sometimes she could be unnecessarily hard on him, but she'd also seen how much of a wreck he was over his death, so he thought the least she could do was try and show a little sympathy.

Her gaze dropped into her glass and she sighed. That was... A start, at least.

"Oh god..."

"Like I said, I'd rather you heard it from me than someone else..."

"I fucking knew Mega's recklessness was gonna get him killed one of these days. I just... Didn't think it'd actually happen. Thanks for... Coming, Agent Carvour. Where are you going from here?"

"I don't know," Owen frowned, drawing himself back a little. There was an uncompromised location in Chicago that was still a good bet, but he didn't know whether he'd be able to face it without Curt. They'd shared that space for so long that it would seem entirely alien to go there alone, to wait for a man who would never turn up late again.

"I don't know what I'm gonna do."

--

Somewhere off the North American continent, a man woke up in a cell. His face and chest were tight with fresh stitches and new scars, his every breath seemed to heave, and he could feel new bites of pain flooding through him every time he tried to move.

From where he was, he could just about make out a large, dramatic burn mark spread across one of his biceps, that he could feel spreading across his shoulder blades and partway down his back. His memory was a patchwork of fire and rubble, but he remembered someone stepping away from him. Watching him fall. Running the other way. That someone had a face, and a name, and a history. With him.

Owen Carvour.

His face twisted. The memory of the name was enough to sting. Owen had left him there to die. Where was he now? Had he gotten away? Some could be so lucky...

Owen was a free man. Where did that leave him? A prisoner. Captured and broken and alone. No end in sight, nothing beyond these four walls. 

The door in front of him opened and a man walked in. Perfectly polished, looking down on him like he was a fly on the wall.

"Good to see you made it through, Agent Mega..."

[starlightshore]

Thanks for the Measured Response™. Unfortunately the character limit doesn't allow for much nuance in asks. My issue isn't so much with the character's actions as the way their conflict is framed. It always feels like we're supposed to judge Asriel way harsher - for ghosting the person responsible for their trauma - than Chara, who is actively trying to hurt them. I know you don't want to trivialize abuse, but the story still botches the subject pretty badly. Still, good luck with the rewrite.

(sighs) please anon, while I do appreciate the effort to acknowledge the lack of nuance in the previous ask, I would much rather you approach me more reasonably. I don't appreciate you coming to me, a complete stranger to both of us, with this attitude of already guilty. can you please learn to talk to people more reasonably? like, I'm living my life out here and you come and accuse me in a really rude way of promoting abuse or whatever the far-fetched conclusion that ask could come across as.

I am more than happy to accept fault over my writing and do my best to improve, but I want to do so on friendly, acceptable terms. please withhold condemnation and explain how and why you feel the story was mishandled. You do so really nicely in the second ask and I appreciate that.

Ultimately, regardless of my intent, my story didn't convey the message and that's, at the very least, mostly my fault. I can try to explain why I'd argue I didn't fuck up as badly as you paint me as, but I will accept that the story I wrote was not emotionally paced well made it weigh more towards cruelty without the hope and understanding I wanted the story to be read as.

I want to stress that I take abuse deadly seriously. I'm a victim of emotional abuse myself and this is something I am desperate to portray in all of its ugly, dirty detail and I want to do it without hurting people. I obviously failed when I first wrote this and I want to say thank you for coming to me about it, even if I feel there is still some friction here I want to express that gratitude. But also please be aware of how you approach people. (referring to the OG ask here).

Anyway

i wanna defend myself here a little and say I think you're missing the bigger picture of the framing of that scene. I feel you forgot the context of that scene and where it's placed in the story. It's this post.

Previously, that entire chapter had Chara idolizing the Asriel they knew as a child. Their timetravel ability being removed meant they longed for that power to control the narrative and live in the past. its like, metaphorical shit for how when growing up its hard to move on from the past and accept that you're aging.

That scene was the point where Chara realized that Asriel wasn't perfect -and has never been. The story is framed by Chara's POV exclusively and navigates Chara's feelings about their separation from Asriel. The "abuse" of that scene is the feeling of an older sibling telling them to "fuck off" and "stop acting like a victim" which are like... like devoid of the context of Asriel's perspective (which we didn't have at this point in the story) is a very hurtful and emotionally damaging thing to say to someone. I can see how someone reading that, who could have been through a similar situation, would react very badly to seeing that in the comic. Thus the content warning. I honestly don't know if "abuse" is the right word here, but what is someone going to have blacklisted for this? Like I said, my goal is to avoid hurting so I'm not going to not tag it. It's an issue of vocabulary vs. accessibility. I still wouldn't know what to tag this tbh.

the overall narrative of the comic is that Chara's perspective of Asriel was holding themself back. they were wallowing over a perfect picture that never existed -which reflected how they hate themselves for not living up to the perfect angelic ideal that they obviously could never have lived up to.

Chara condemning Asriel for being Flowey and being a jerk is the first step towards chara acknowledging their own blame in the equation. pretending the problem doesn't exist and that you're inherently awful doesn't fix things. Immediately after tossing out Flowey, they realize they are a flower as well. (literally becoming the thing they just condemned Asriel)

Once The two reconcile with the help of Actual Adults in the situation, the story changes POV to Asriel. It's then we're given context to Asriel's perspective and to show, that yeah, both of them Suck as people. That both are capable of majorly fucking up. And that's because the tools they're given a life of trauma and being reborn into a world that doesn't understand your damage is in itself traumatizing.

so idk man. the framework here serves a purpose and while I plan on showing a more nuanced and balanced pace -I really need to show the characters having more things going on than their larger conflict + be happier with each other. (the problem with writing for an askblog is that its very reactive and its easier to lean into tension and relationship drama than focus on the lighter but necessary moments. I know for sure the redraw will be better at this)

But yeah the framework, as it stands, feels good to me. Maybe in the details of how it's shown I'll be able to handle the nuances more gracefully but with the larger goal in mind, I'm not sure how I can change that? I would really love to hear your thoughts on that.

[drawnecromancy]

Nielle de Fumeterre, or as I like to call him, Hélianthe being a fucking liar.

[oc-writing-corner]

I added this to the pinned post but please don't be scared to tag us in your oc writing or add us to your tag lists, it would be a big help in finding writing to reblog

[maddiefriendlovesbilly]

My only explanation for this is that you should definitely read A Small Slice of Ethereal P.I.E. And its sequel Of Wandering Souls and Those Left Behind on ao3 or wattpad by enderamethyst (self promo)