#social distancing love

[shaniacsboogara]

still thinking about ryan bergara deciding to make the littlest bastard of a man as his dnd character, give him two different accents, straight up name him "steve", and then reveal in a game altering plot twist that his father was real life american film director steven spielberg.

#THIS is why i need them to play DND again #i'd love to see the sdndnd party back together but even with different characters it'd be just as chaotic #sdndnd #sd&d&d #social distancing and dungeons and dragons #watcher #ryan bergara #all hail the watcher #watcher entertainment #shane and ryan #shane madej #steven lim

[yousaveeveryonebutwhosavesyou]

There’s a point in life when you get tired of chasing everyone and trying to fix everything, but it’s not giving up, it’s realizing that you don’t need certain people and their crap. Sometimes you have to distance yourself from people that only call when they need something. Fair weather friends only want to come around when they need your sun to shine on their dark and gloomy days. In the end, you’ll realize you only have a few true friends. But that’s better than having many fake ones.

#friends #friendship #friendships #fake friends #fake #people #distance #dark #true friendship #true friends #love #important #realization #realizing #depression #social anxiety #overthinking #anxiety #bpd #bipolar #loneliness #alone #lonely

[bywandandsword]

Since Hazbin Hotel popped off, I've seen a few times people asserting that there is something racist about Alastor's backstory, given that he is canonically a Creole from New Orleans, but his demon form does not have any overt indicators of his being a person of color

So here's a gentle reminder and clarification, as a Louisiana Creole myself;

"Louisiana Creoles (French: Créoles de la Louisiane, Louisiana Creole: Moun Kréyòl la Lwizyàn, Spanish: Criollos de Luisiana) are a Louisiana French ethnic group descended from the inhabitants of colonial Louisiana before it became a part of the United States during the period of both French and Spanish rule. They share cultural ties such as the traditional use of the French, Spanish, and Creole languages and predominant practice of Catholicism. Some mistakenly think the term is a racial designation, while in fact people of European, of African, and of mixed ancestry have all been termed "Creole" since the 18th century." (x, emphasis mine)

Please pay special attention to the last sentence. While many, probably most, Louisiana Creoles are of mixed-race ancestry, not all are. I'm not saying there aren't valid critiques of Alastor as a character, this just isn't one of them

#Sword speaks #Hazbin Hotel #Hazbin Hotel Alastor #Radio Demon #I could add an entire bibliography on this cause the development of Louisiana Creoles as a culture is actually really interesting #and I've been doing a ton of research into my family history and in turn Louisiana history #because Louisiana my love 💕 #but I keep encountering this misconception about Creoles from both white and black people alike #and like the only reason we have this misconception is cause when the Americans showed up #they took the complicated French social and racial systems and shoved it in a dualistic racial model #and white Americans saw that a lot of Creoles were mixed race so just assumed that's what the term meant #it didn't help when Jim Crow geared up and there was an active effort by racist white Creoles to distance themselves from Creoles of color #tldr: shit be nuanced so don't throw around accusations of racism all willy-nilly

[splickedylit]

excerpting

Domestic Diplomacy II is turning out to be even more "splickedy gratuitously gets caught in the weeds of xenosociology and alien language barriers, the fic sequel" and tbh I'm not mad about it

--

“Oh, your moirail!” says Jade, and bounces upright, ignoring John’s wary little soft human cautionary hiss.  To your vague surprise, she’s apparently learned enough not to do the human holding-out-a-hand gesture they usually do when they’re introduced; she clasps her hands in front of her, nonexistent claws politely folded in, and ducks her head briefly forward and to one side, careful not to jab at him with her nonexistent horns. 

It's a pretty passable greeting—for a social equal, which is its own bizarre issue, considering he’s a highblood.  But relatively non-offensive, for a human, and fortunately for her she’s picked a highblood who isn’t likely to give a shit.  Gamzee laughs out loud and gives his own lazy-ass version of a greeting back, a vague twist of his wrists and dip of his head, condescending to use an equal’s greeting back at her.   When he says “Gamzee Makara,” there’s a hint of a threatening buzz to it, a testing you should know to respect me warning—you could have told him she’d show absolutely no sign of hearing it, which is exactly what happens.

“I’m Jade Harley!  I meet you,” Jade says, a carefully neutral statement-of-fact greeting—not fawning or hostile.  You don’t know if humans are out here just learning neutral address no matter what, or if this human particularly just doesn’t give a shit that your moirail’s a fuck-off mutant-huge highblood with horns that scrape the ceiling of the block—by the expectant way she looks up at Gamzee afterward, she wouldn’t give much of a shit either way.  Out of all of the humans, Jade Harley might actually win the prize for giving the least shits, no matter what Rose and Dave like to pretend.

“Yeah, I meet you too, motherfucker,” says Gamzee, looking incredibly amused, and glances down at you.  “She’s a rude-ass little motherfuckin’ toothful, huh?  I like her.”

“Of course you do,” you say, pained.  “Don’t take it personally, alright?  You’re not a highblood here, they don’t get highbloods.”

“Oh, best friend,” says Gamzee, and kisses your nugbone again, embarrassingly.  “I’m a highblood wherever the fuck I go.  It’s cool though.  Squishy-ass little motherfuckers won’t get any grief from me.”

“<Motherfucker>,” Jade repeats behind you, and switches back to English, in the bright, wide verbal tone you’re starting to learn means ‘smiling and happy’, weird interstitial ‘vowel’ breath-sounds further back in the throat through pulled-back mouth-corners.  “Hmm, <motherfucker>…  Oh, neat!  Is that dialect?  It sounds like, ahh, what’s that other word.  Kk—kkkht—  Uh, dammit.  You guys need to learn how to use vowels—  It sounds like <;brother>.”

“It is like,” you say, surprised despite yourself.  “&lt;Brother> is a troll, and <motherfucker> you put it all spots you want.  It’s a thing, it’s a troll, it’s a, tss, a doing-things word, it’s a name.  It’s bad, it’s good.  Any spot you want.  And he does want, for all those, all the time.”

#splickedydrabbles #Homestuck #Domestic Diplomacy #me staring into the distance: what if 'motherfucker' and 'brother' are translated different but they're related words in alternian.... #what if 'brother' and 'sister' aren't different words theyre just translated in english based on gender but there's no distinction actually #it's all the word I tend to translate as 'kin'/'family'/'fam' lol but gendered by english-speakers for comprehension #what if alternian greetings have implicit settings for 'i'm hostile to you' and 'i'm trying to be non-offensive and polite' #and the lack of either is an implicit message of 'we're equals' which comes with its own social baggage RE: castes #what if I approached Homestuck as though it was implicitly a translated text ala JRR Tolkein's meta-narrative of Lord of the Rings #''Alternian wouldn't spell his name 'karkat vantas' of course but it's been anglicized for the audience with additional vowel sounds'' #'when his tone of voice is referenced in this line it of course actually refers to his engagement of his third subvocal chatterbox--'' #WHAT IF-- #I am frothing at the damn mouth I love fucking around in this sandbox so much I will make up ALL the societal/cultural indicators #this is the casual/semi-formal/court-formal code-switching in Save a Horse Ride a Dragon all over again lmao NO REGERTS

[desognthinking]

WIP... Wednesday

Tagged by @willowedhepatica  (thanks!) I'm so sorry that this comes so late 😭 life got in the way. Not sure who i can tag who has things in the works they can share, but please Please know if anyone has any snippets or sneak peaks I would love to see them and yell about them with you pleaseee

Not strictly a WIP but here’s just under 3.5k of an oldish experimental AU inspired by this post :’) in this one they’re… *checks notes*, ah, hmm. Chimerical tomb guardians carved from stone.   

-----

It’s a wickedly stormy day when a procession scores up the hill through beating rain and blowing dust, but there’s no time to waste. The wedding will not wait, and on its occasion, as a symbol of the new ties between the families of the bride and the groom, there is a terrible, beautiful new guardian grotesque to be received by the Silva tombhouse from the Salviuses. 

It is surely mounted on the property sometime during the silver-black onslaught of sky upon earth, but Beatrice cannot clearly see it through the rain and the  maze of trees that still separates the Silvas from their neighbors. The families on this hill are not quite rich enough to expand at the pace of the wealthiest among them, who slice and raze to add to their already broad campuses of tombs. Instead, in this part of town, modest, often unmatching clusters dwell amongst the wildflowers and long-lived trees sprayed across the land. 

Beatrice likes the nature. Her perch is kept cool by the damp and dewy mornings, birdsong flickering from above and around. In the filtered haze of heat and light there is some measure of peace too – here, there is less to fight over, and fewer lines of tension between the families. Hidden by farther slopes, there are fewer threats from beyond. And, overshadowed by the lower circuit of large gated tombhouses, there are far milder spoils for aspiring robbers. 

It’s from one of these large inner-city tombhouses that the new stone protector is said to arrive. The Salviuses have money spilling out their hands and down their wrists. It’s said, it’s said, it’s said – it’s whispered in the wind that carries the falling leaves from vine to vane, so easy for Beatrice to stretch up and put an ear to. The pollen clouds dispersed over grass in shapes spelling disruption  and newcomer. It’s gossiped over pages in the library, first with smug nods and just you wait and see, dear, we’re never wrong from the grandfathers and grandmothers as Beatrice pores through the volumes in the upper shelves, precious books pressed so high and so far back that they’re backed into both wall and ceiling. 

Then, inevitably, it carries through the air in the giggles and hushed gasps of the living members of this family, hands curling over yarn and needle as the youngest children breathlessly run and hide behind the walls and in the shadowy pockets of the tombhouse. The Great-great-great Grandmother who had been the first to break the news is mollified by the confirmation, and generously refuses to gloat.

A Silva girl is marrying a Salvius boy, and the Salviuses are pledging a guardian – the spirits know they have too many anyway, but still, a Salvius guardian – to this hill. 

“You’ve got to go over and see what’s going on,” Beatrice is instructed one morning, in no uncertain terms. They’re going over integration by partial fractions on the little platform at the back that looks down over the mills: her, Great-Grandfather, and Lilith, who’s slunk over yet again from the Villaumbrosias’ for some ‘peace and quiet’, and also because Beatrice’s family likes her for some mysterious reason. They pretend it’s because they need the extra pair – or, well, pairs, in Lilith’s case – of eyes. The massive, foreboding, Villaumbrosia affair the next hill over already boasts so many fearsome hands on deck, and they only have one Beatrice. 

Great-grandfather is gentle and teasing about it; Beatrice (and Lilith, although she will never admit it) is his favorite captive audience. 

Of course, it’s easy to treat her as one of their own on mornings like this — quiet summer days when she’s stripped of silica and scale, descended from her weatherworn perch. Devoid of the coarse matter of rock and metal twisted into hungry, flame-spitting fangs, and instead merely a soft-spoken spirit in a youthful skin. When the great grandfathers and mothers and their grandfathers and grandmothers look at her and see dark, almost-human eyes and loosely-bound hair in a bun above her shoulders.  

And when Beatrice walks Lilith out and across the rocky way that leads home, it’s easy for them to wave the two of them off. After all, Lilith is just a young woman with black waves she tucks carefully behind her ears and a handsome, slanting jaw that could almost pass as being real; as being pressed and molded with muscle and mandible and a fragile, mycelial network of vasculature and nerves. Not another delicate illusion that would slip and shatter at the first sign of danger, revealing in a flash the grotesque ugliness within.

There hasn’t been an attack in a while. When there hasn’t been an attack in a while Beatrice thinks the family tends to forget where exactly they hold court.

(Here, cradled close enough within these hills to walk back to where home once was. Children’s handprints on the threshold, coal scribbles on the floor. Walls still perfused with the fragrance and vapor of hot homemade stew.)

This is a graveyard. This is a necropolis, a city of the dead. It slithers amongst the roots of the living but does not make a home of it. In its palm lies the fragile in-between, the sickly sweet intersection where the living and the after-dead mingle like the meeting of two clouds. Within its grounds the family is wont to forget the ruthlessness that’s sometimes needed to keep it in balance.

Once they depart, Beatrice and Lilith’s guises fall away. Invisible to a still-beating heart, two terrible chimeras gouge skid-marks through the dirt to get to the Villaumbrosia citadel before its guests arrive at ten-thirty. Miraculously, only twice during the entire trip does Lilith half-heartedly threaten to snap Beatrice’s tail off. 

They make it there just in time. Beatrice watches as Lilith sweeps her way up the manicured moss columns and melds, in a quick thrash, with the magnificent dark-gray creature of stone that lunges out from the south turret. Frozen like this: mouth curled in a snarl and sharp wings flung out – in mockery, in bombast, in warning; Lilith at her most vindictive and most frightening, the elaborate Villaumbrosia insignia branded hot and painful down her side.

Beatrice knows it hurts, of course. Perhaps less so like this but certainly in the flesh, where it is always red and raw like the day it was carved down Lilith’s ribs in the workshop. Preserved unchanging in the meat as it is preserved forever in the rock. Lilith winces, when she thinks the others aren’t looking, but Beatrice knows. Camila might say something – probably does say something, but Beatrice doesn’t. She understands too well, and after all, what can they do?

After all, this is their work. This is life: whatever is asked of them. For Lilith today, it is to be a showpiece for guests at a bloated, overwrought tea ceremony. Broadly, it is watchman, and protector, and advocate. And at times like these, when there is a stir in the tangled ecosystem of bloodlines and their guardian-creatures, Beatrice is called upon to be an ambassador. 

So, the day after the storm, Beatrice leaves her perch to seek out the Silvas. She glides down from the still-slippery stone, and lands softly on the wet earth, scale meeting fur meeting soil and humid air. 

In her hands – her metaphorical hands – she clasps fistfuls of string that stretch, infinitely thin, to every corner of her tombhouse. She flexes each one and puts it between her teeth as she steps over the threshold and into the trees, testing their elasticity and tensile strength. If there is to be a twang, however minute, she must feel it. There is only one of her at home.

As she approaches the Silva tombhouse the air around her shifts and seems to solidify into a medium both probing and warning. Beatrice stills, allowing the woods to see her and course through her calmness. They know her, of course, and she waits for them to pass on the message to the newest guardian, still incredibly sensitive to the prickle of unfamiliar movement and sound. 

Presently, physically, the world exhales. 

Beatrice cautiously continues forward, until the treeline peels away to reveal the Silva tombhouse.

Tombhouse, as it goes, is a misnomer – a tombhouse is a complex rather than a single shell. It is no single cell for a coffin, but a collection of connected mausoleums and courtyards and passageways and corners and gates, lifted high and tunneled low. And as befitting a clan of esteemed craftsmen, the Silva tombhouse is a harmonious set spiraling outwards in organic whorls. Its walls are scraped clean and brushed beige, curled and leafed and folded in at the edges. Delicate and pretty in its strength in a way Beatrice’s own plain, stoic little set of residences could never be.

At the top of the central mausoleum, bounded by a parapet, rests a flat platform. On that ledge sits the new grotesque. 

Ink-black stone peeks curiously down at Beatrice. 

Immediately it is clear that she is like nothing Beatrice has ever seen before. Yes, as is tradition she is joined and jawed together piecemeal from various symbolic beasts, but this composition and style is unique. 

She’s simultaneously entirely unlike both the typical statues produced by-the-dozen in the workshops, and the specially commissioned sculptures like Beatrice herself. This guardian is a patchwork of shapes and textures Beatrice has only ever seen in the watercolor sketches of her tombhouse’s own library as belonging to exotic creatures from faraway places. Still other elements escape her recognition and description, and everything meshes deftly at smooth, near-invisible seams. 

Perhaps this isn’t surprising in a Salvius guardian – Jillian’s own commission too, it’s rumored. No less should be expected from someone the alchemists and scientists alike shy away from. Jillian Salvius considers herself a traveler, and a collector, and a dabbler, and Beatrice hears that the spokes of her gates are gnarled and carved in strange patterns from foreign lands.

The guardian shifts and cocks her head curiously, and Beatrice pulls herself together sharply.

“Hi,” the creature says. “You must be the neighbor from the east.”

Beatrice snaps back into polite, exceedingly proper posture. She nods, dipping forward in a movement resembling a bow. It makes the high-perched creature giggle, gauzy like air.

“Good morning,” she replies. “My name is Beatrice, and you’re right. How did you know?”

The guardian doesn’t answer. She separates from her stone in a miasma of color, swoops down noisily, and lands, a little clumsily, on a lower ledge. “Two heads, huh?” she says, thoughtfully. “Kinda perfect for the scholars.”

It’s not said judgmentally; more so with a further curious slant of her head, observational and light. Beatrice feels strange and semisolid all over.

She doesn’t correct the new guardian; tell her that no, she hadn’t actually been crafted or blessed for this bloodline, only gifted to them just one generation ago. And gifted rather carelessly, at that; an obligatory token presented upon the death of the benefactor’s tutor.

Before that her two heads were designed not as a tribute to wisdom or a paean to collaboration, but in order to stare proudly over an excessive estate, stretching out in opposite directions over land too vast for merely one head to behold. An arrogant symbol of not just physical, but political reach. She was a status symbol for powerful people – two-faced might be a better descriptor. 

Beatrice has always considered this with some bitterness, but today, she oddly feels no urge to self-flagellate. She feels, suspiciously, nothing at all; a fuzzy blank.

Instead, in response to the guardian, Beatrice blinks. Both of her heads do. They crane and incline together, like long-necked birds bending to convene. She feels sharp ears on each one twitch and flutter.

The creature laughs again. She descends further to the porch, then approaches Beatrice slowly. “I’m Ava,” she introduces herself, finally. Shyly. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Ava,” Beatrice repeats, careful and hushed. She parses it over and traces it as though threading a needle – how the strange, simple symmetry of the word, the hypnotic up-down-up of A-V-A,  doesn't begin to encompass the entity approaching her. On cue, Ava does a funny, shuddery motion that cascades down her whole form. 

Beatrice, leaning her heads over old tomes like water jugs tipped over a parched tongue, dreams of fantastical things, from places that often sound even more surreal. And yet before her now stands the most peculiar thing alive yet, that defies everything she’s known and seen. 

Yes, clearer now before her eyes, Ava is a patchwork of impossible parts. 

Up close Beatrice can see she’s also a riverbed of illusory things. Small divots seem to scoop themselves out, sink deep, and then ripple back up into the surface of her body. Bubbling, and collapsing, and reforming, like springs of molten mother-of-pearl. Each little cavity shimmers like roughened gemstones: a gasping, dark blue, like well water under the sun; or a moody green like the light-starved undershade in a storm; or a thawing amber that Beatrice cannot even describe except that it looks like the smell of hot bread with a sweet cream core, tempting and steaming.

“Beatrice,” Ava echoes, her eyes gleaming and dark. They bubble expressively and endlessly deep. Gazing at Beatrice, straight, still and pondering. Searching. 

Silence stretches until it doesn’t. 

Something snaps – a bird on a twig above –  and Ava shakes herself awake. “Where’s my manners!” she exclaims suddenly. “Come on,” she swishes around gamely. Beatrice, bewildered, sneezes. 

She’s learning quickly that when Ava laughs, the dense tassel-like feathers on the back rise in delighted reflex and splay apart. 

The two of them slip between trees into a little glade, buoyed by her relentless charm and a thrumming current of something else, in the undertow.

Once upon a time, this was a courtyard, although now that the Silva tombhouse has unfurled in the opposite direction it’s been allowed to tastefully overgrow into its former self, mossy and scruffy. Old pieces of wall and pillars still cordon off one side; Beatrice resists the temptation to bound about and explore, and instead parks herself primly at a corner, not fidgeting.

Ava has no such compunctions. She wriggles herself into a comfortable position on a large boulder. Her weapon of a tail dangles down and bats at the ground idly, uprooting chunks of grass. 

“How are you finding it here?” Beatrice asks, trying very hard to be normal. 

“Honestly? I don’t know yet,” Ava grins, “and you’re the first one of us I’ve met here.” 

She pauses, cocks her head to one side so strikingly. The gesture almost looks human. “You know, my new folks think very highly of you,” She looks appraisingly over Beatrice with an indecipherable expression.

Beatrice feels quite hot. “Mine are curious about you.”

There is a shift in the air as Ava straightens abruptly. Her tail stills. “What will you tell them?”

Beatrice bites her tongues, undecided. She’d meant to think of it later, to phrase and rephrase and turn the words over and over in her mouth on the way back to get them right. It takes a while, usually, to distill her thoughts precisely into words that balance both insinuation and tone, and half the time it ends up all too stilted and formal anyway. How people seem to be able to do that, off the cuff – it’s confusing. Far easier, Beatrice thinks, to sit quietly beside and let such people do the talking.

Especially now that this seems, somehow, to be important to Ava. And especially now that she finds she doesn’t quite have any of the words.

If Beatrice had hands she would wring them. She thinks, distantly, of what someone else wiser than her might say. “They’ll agree with me that you’re certainly unique,” she starts, and it’s like Shannon’s talking through her, stately and gentle. Bold, like Mary. 

She adds, in an abrupt impulse that’s, alarmingly, all Beatrice, “I do think you’ll fit in well here.”

“Oh,” Ava seems surprised. Her tail, heretofore curled tightly on the boulder, relaxes and turns a loose arc in the air, hacking at the grass. “Thanks,” she looks at Beatrice, and inhales sharply, although not unkindly. 

Pauses. Sheepishly, she adds, “I’ve heard some people, uh, calling me devilish and other things, you see. But you know, it’s fine. Whatever.”

Beatrice grimaces involuntarily, then schools her expression back into an empathetic nod. It’s not unexpected. There’s bound to be a procession of curious gawkers and onlookers filing through to try and catch a glimpse of something hailing from the elusive Salviuses. Beartice knows the type: traditional, gossipy and busybodies.

They’ll take one look up the roof and gasp in disbelief or disgust, probably. Sneer up at the twisted, unnatural proportions, if they’re brave. Ava runs too close to the precipice of their diluted tolerance.

“The Silvas are good people. They’ll stand by you.” Beatrice isn’t sure if it helps, but it’s true. The households here are the little silver lining of this part of town, otherwise ragged and out of the way and a little discordant in its hues.

Ava exhales gently. Beatrice thinks there’s a small smile there. “I know.”

“It doesn’t make it easier.”

“Yeah. I know,” repeats Ava, her eyes shining, and it’s almost like she really does. 

Beatrice understands. They did it to her, too, after all.

The people who commissioned her had made a puppet of her. They had demanded a departure from classical references and therefore affixed to her frame things like startling, swiveling joints and odd angles.  Two heads, of course, among other modifications – all in an arrogant, ambitious drive to defy tradition and create a visionary symbol of fear and envy.  Instead, the lay beholder glanced upon the warped anatomy and thought it blasphemy. And so, Beatrice rapidly became that to her own family too: acrid to the eyes, rotted in the soul, a disembowelment. Failure. An embarrassment. 

The whispers billowed large like cotton sheets drying in the fields, caught and blown out in the wind.

It was a matter of time. Beatrice imagines the tiny family offspring being taught their true oral history in a sugary sick little chant, clapping their chubby hands cheerfully and squealing every grim word, 

Then the old teacher died / and it was a great relief / The family rushed to ready / a token of public grief

Her, of course. Her, and not any of the cruder, more sedate, stone guardians that studded the estate. The small ones who, on a good day, sat patiently and circulated air and respired noisily, and who were not capable of thought or pain. The family had a lot of them lining their walls, not much more than large decorative lumps of dough programmed to trap, waylay, or bite at intruders. 

Instead, they parted ways with the looming, ghastly and elaborate figure that guarded one of their main wings, and painted it as a great outpouring of sadness. Beatrice knew better.

The whole event was swift; almost planned in advance. She’d barely had time to send an urgent warning to Lilith before she was gone – a failed experiment in pomposity that took an unforeseen and regrettable turn into the profane. 

In a matter of days she was transplanted from lush green gardens into dry hills bathed in reedy, half-obscured sunsets. The kind of neighborhood her old family would call avant-garde or ‘forward-thinking’, although with a scoff that betrayed what they really thought.

And at night, looking down to sleeping homes, Beatrice would hear in the nothingness the same whispers splashing down the stone like rain, all over again.

Mindlessly, now, she has the sudden urge to reach out and feel. Fluttering cells or hardened stone, it doesn’t matter. She wants to transmute a hand of tender human pulp and skin, and run fragile fingers softly over the strangest braided foldery and flattening of membrane, bumps and spindles until they catch, pierce and bleed. 

And she so badly wants to tell Ava: I think you’re nightmarish and very beautiful. You would hold an army off this humble hill. like holding out a pathetic little bundle of flowers– but she doesn’t. It’s too long and too much; I’m here. is too short, and both are too naked. She’s not that kind of creature. She’s carved from solid rock and even when she sheds it it still feels like its weight chains her to the earth.

Her voices remain even and steady, somehow. 

“I –This isn’t the customary welcome and introductory visit,” Beatrice confesses, in lieu of it all.

“Oh. It’s not?”

Beatrice shakes her heads. “There’ll need to be a more official one.” 

The overlapping layers of spines along Ava’s limbs rise and then flatten, quickly.  “So I’ll get to see you again soon?” 

Feeling warm, or moist, or something like a pillar of pressurized foam, Beatrice clears her throats. “I suppose so. Yes.”

#“Ard wtf is this AU” 😭 listen. it was a strange and fun little thing/experiment to play around with #YEAH imagine a large town/small city that spills out over the hills in a labyrinthine necropolis of familial mausoleums / tomb complexes #pragmatic bulwarks of defence and important centers of social/intellectual/cultural life and death and the rich after-death #beatrice is the super serious guardian of a respectable but modest bloodline of teachers and scholars #when she's not staring moodily out into the distance she spends like all her free time in the library/underground heirloom chamber #and getting tutorials from fond but vaguely concerned ancestors #They love her unconditionally btw she’s just sometimes in her head too much to see it #the Silvas are renowned artisans! Jillian is jillian lol #If some of the words sound like they don’t exist it’s because they straight up don’t. I’ve no idea what old me was thinking. #hashtag avatrice hashtag meetcute hashtag wrarior nun hashtag mutually obsessed at first sight etc.

[oh-hools]

valentibners thoyghts yesterday: i love my girlfrebd and i wish i wasn't so sleepy all the time

#hooly noises #i fell asleep in call before it even if it was 4am for her and like 3pm for me #i wiiissshhhhh i had much energy to do things for ppl i love. i would like to draw ppl things and id like to hang out #i feeeeellllll a little bit selfish all the time. i feeeeeeelllll like i rarely use what energy i have for anything other than myswlf #which you knowwwww isn't the worst thing in the world. but i feel like im always distancing myself socialllyy #because i don't respond to messages or i don't give people time or i don't let people know #--- #i think when my brain found out im not technically obligated to do anything socially ever it took it too far #prioritize feeling good and going to sleep. nothing else #little bit assholish. im a little bit shittty #but i hope it's clear i still love? #sorry! im still learning. don't look at me for too long #zzz

[aesthetic-solar-space]

Twisted Games by Ana Huang, 454 pages, published July 29th 2021 - 🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟

If I could give this book more than five stars I would. The dynamic of these two characters that are focused upon in this book was just what I needed. It honestly only took me so long to finish because I didn’t want to finish. I wanted to stay in that world, that relationship, that mind set for as long as possible. I am excited to continue the rest of the series with two books left, however I am just a tiny bit dragging my feet cause I don’t want to leave Bridget especially but also Rhys.

#college student #college life #chronicles of a sick person #adult ish #social distancing #long live the queue #it was always queue #all queued up #twisted series #twisted games #twisted love #rhys larsen #bridget von ascheberg #queen Bridget #princess and bodyguard #romance books #interlocking standalones #connected standalones #alex volkov #ava chen

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

#tis i! tragic daughter one of three! #motherless at age 26 #the last wake was today and this was more fun than the 1st. more casual. my moms childhood friends were there #ans it was fun to catch up with my uncle and his side of the family #i feel so weird tho. bc ppl r asking how we r and like genuinely i feel fine most of the time #like my sister is like: i sacrificed so much for my mom and i saw her downslide into death #and im like yea i fucked off to [redacted state] and showed uo after the horrible part was over #and bc im finally on medication i really feel better than i have possibly ever. so its just weird #weird to br at my mother's wake and think: god ive wasted so much fucking time being miserable. i dont want to do that anymore #and i feel like thats an option now. i mean ill always be frustrated by the same things. the difficulty reading and focusing #and the lack of social ease. but it feels like less of a big deal now #i say that now before im entrenched in school again. but idk. its just weird #but idk i love my mom but there was distance there and i have weird insect brain which i think makes it hurt less #i dunno. maybr ill feel it more later. when im on my own again #its just that i never reached out to her. i didnt realy on her and she didnt reach out to me so now things won't change much #i dunno. well see #unrelated

[prolibytherium]

Absolutely death gripped clenched trying not to comment on reductive posts on ancient greek homosexual relationships

#It is neither wholly '0mg two gay guys in love!!' and 'I am humiliating and debasing a lower man by making a woman out of him' #There's heavy elements of that in how they conceptualized penetrator vs penetrated but the erastes (lover/protector) and eromenos (beloved) #relationship was significantly more complex than that #Like it is conceptualized as sort of a mentor/mentee relationship and a positive element for an adolescent's development #It was the subject of romantic plays and you get things like people in antiquity in heated debates over who is the #erastes and who is the eromenos between Achilles and Patroclus (to better depict them in plays) #The bottom line is more 'the socially accepted m/m relationships were (what we would now consider) an adult and a child #(or young man) with the age difference being a fundamental element to the dynamic.' #And more broadly being penetrated in sex assigned a 'lower' or 'womanly' role and it would not be conventionally accepted #for an older/more socially powerful man to recieve penetration (which certainly DID happen though) #So absolutely a moment in the history of male homosexuality and not something to just go 'ew ew bad evil ewwie' about but also #not something you want to project modern conceptions of LGBT identity upon #Also we know relatively little about relationships between women in ancient Greece due to lack of sources due to being a #highly patriarchal culture but we can't actually know that they did not involve similar power dynamic #Certainly not to the same extent or in such a well socially defined way (bc they conceptualize sex almost entirely through a lens of #penetration) but I think you should be treating relations between ancient Greek women with the same degree of #historical distance from our lives and identities today. #Ok death grip failed I just typed an entire rant. Fiuck it

[wisdomseeker02]

Pick a card (Pick a sticker) Tarot reading

What does your person want you to know?

Group 1, Social distancing: Your person wants you to know that they wanna be with you, they want to establish some kind of union with you, but there is too much on their plate right now. They have a burden on their shoulders. There might be people around them advising them that you're not good for them. They're having a hard time dealing with that. There are people judging your connection and they're trying to handle that. Their heart leads to you regardless but they let those people get to them and they're overwhelmed by this judgement. Also they might be trying to figure out if you'll be good for them in the long run, if this will be worth it if they decide to go with it, regardless of the problems. There's this feeling of "I want a union with you, but will it be worth the fight?" That's what they're trying to make a decision about in the moment.

Group 2, Keep calm: Your person wants you to know that they want you to have faith in them and in your connection. You might be thinking they're unfaithful, they have cheated on you or something like that. Both of you or only you might be going through some difficulties in your life right now and they want you to know that no matter what, they are there for you and they will go through it with you. No matter what happens around you they want to be with you. They're saying "It's that simple." They truly love you and want to take care of you, even though you might not believe that. They also don't care if people are against you two being together, they just want to be with you. They want you to not believe others if they're trying to pull you apart or are saying some bad sh*t about them. They want you to put yourself, your feelings for them, this connection first and not listen to other people or your own fears and limiting beliefs.

Group 3, Not interested in human beings.: Your person wants you to know that they feel like succes is on their side again when it comes to you. They have been hurt really bad in the past, so bad that they had hit rock bottom. And so right now with you they are full of fears, that it'll happen again. And that is what's holding them back. They're afraid to get out of their comfort zone with you, because of this huge pain that they experienced in the past. On the other hand, you just make them so happy, it feels so right with you, like spirit is on their side. But they are still afraid you will hurt them, too.

Thanks for tuning in, loves ❤️

Tip me here and here if you'd like 💟

#free tarot readings #free tarot #tarot #pick a design #pick a card #pick a sticker #printondemand #redbubble #findyourthing #tshirt #stickers #mask #love #relationship #couple #design #my design #unicorn #social distancing #wisdomseeker02

[gothyanki]

too many clerics on the dancefloor

#v. lucky they managed to find some more friends #both for the sake of party balance and because the awkwardness was palpable with just the two of them #lykos woke shadowheart up trying to grab the artefact #and then cheerfully told her he was just checking to see if she had any valuables #(she respected his honesty tbf) #what a teamup #they will become vitriolic best buddies even if it takes three acts for it to happen #also love the social distancing in this picture #oc: lykos #shadowheart #githyanki

[recitedemise]

𝗚𝗮𝗹𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝗹𝘂𝗰𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝗲𝗲𝗸 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗽 𝗵𝗶𝗺𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳, 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗲𝗮𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗼 𝗹𝗲𝗻𝗱 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗻𝗲𝗲𝗱𝗲𝗱. This, beyond being a testament to his softer heart, his rather sizable well of care, is a consequence of his time shared with Mystra. Being a worshipper, a follower and lover both to the mother of magic, Gale is far more familiar with giving than receiving. A tremendous deal more. Beyond those illusions of love, Mystra granted him nothing, and whenever she was troubled, even sour or short, it was Gale, doting Gale, who would smooth it out. In truth, short of the stars, he had offered her everything. His whole life to boot. Still, living for some years prioritizing Mystra, Gale's grown notably reluctant to ask for help. It's why, when strapped with the netherese orb, newly blighted and rotting to death, he'd sooner clamored in his tower than look to friends. He's loathed to show his folly, of course, and is far from a fan of stirring worry, but with Mystra, any ask he'd made was resolutely shunned, and from his lover, his deity, that left its mark. Gale--a giver, a man that wants to hope but doesn't dare to--is not a man to ask for anything. If ever he does, the ask is comically small, and even then, he expects to be denied almost immediately. Consequently, an eager kindness leaves him floored. Gale can read displeasure. (See: Mystra.) Gale's trained to soothe it, too. Yet, when confronted with the novelty of that same generosity, your resident Gale of Waterdeep is like a fish out of water.

#HEADCANON. #This hit home because I know too intimately what Gale went through. #God. It sucks. Gale is so attuned to Mystra and her periods of distance and #her cold demeanor. #He just learned to go right into tell me what I can do to make it better mode. #I think Gale isn't really the best at reading or catching social cues #but he's very aware when someone is upset. #He had to learn because god forbid he failed to recognize something and receive less warmth from Mystra #(she isn't exactly warm to begin with.) #she was just largely neglectful of Gale and Gale was convinced it was love #he showed so much of it and so much warmth and...kinda felt being chosen by her #was enough of an expression of love on Mystra's part (it isn't!). #Gale also only asking for help from YOU because he knows you deserve to know #because hiding it would be a danger to others around him. #Like Gale truly asked for no ones hand before the nautiloid incident. he had to be quite literally #torn from his life and freefall into another disaster before even asking for help #a small ask too. This man is like hey can I have your UTTERLY useless necklace so I don't die? i'm so sorry i'm such an inconvenience #fuck. Gale. Gale...baby.... #Literally you go 'children shouldn't die' (arabella) and he's all you're such a decent person...i trust you #???? honestly. need i say more. #anyway idk if ill write much today beyond this. im DROWNING in work and i have to prep for an event tomorrow #so you can just frown with me about gale #Me writing about Mystra: wow theyre a lot like my abuser. 🥲🥲🥲🥲hauew..a..

[theweirderofthetwo]

Aromantic Laurence!!!

I’m not sure if it makes sense, i will need to ponder this.

#Yes i am aromantic and enjoy projecting but ssshh #i was walking and thinking about how much i love aromantic jane roland #and how important it is to me that she and laurence love each other but are not in love #they are good friends & fellow soldiers & fuck buddies & long distance co parents #its wonderful #and i then i thought about edith and tharkay and napoleon and everybody else #and realized that i never really read laurence as having specifically romantic feelings toward anybody #hes mostly doing things hes socially supposed to and feeling confused #as i said i will need to mull this over to see if i agree with myself #temeraire

[finexbright]

before i go, i want to say that none of you should feel guilty for buying tickets for harry's shows. yes i know it's ridiculous to see him perform so many shows in one venue, in one country. but you shouldn't feel bad for buying tickets or wanting to see him live. you have all the rights to go there and have fun. and more importantly, you all deserve affordable and reasonable ticket prices and i am truly sad to see the unrealistic prices and that so many of you can't see him, but your support matters throughout and don't let anyone tell you otherwise. because if i'm being honest, the level at which he is, he's gonna still sell out shows, so if you're someone who can go, then might as well fill the crowd with lovely people showing him the love, warmth and support he needs right now instead of influencers. so go forth, be gay, be unabashed, dress up, dress drown, hoist the rainbow and have fun and don't feel guilty about any of it. 🤍

#harry styles #love on tour #soni says things #stalkers this doesn't apply to you. you stay at home social distancing and all

[xknzs]

dec. 22.23 | all love, all day, every day. always 🇲🇦♥️

#me #my face #LISTEN #i grew up in football jerseys and i feel so nostalgic 2day #t’was a comfort thing #a comfort ✨fit✨ if u will #also #don’t trust people who don’t unconditionally love morocco and its people #thems the terms #POV u’r a feral li’l Kabyle/Italian bastard who can’t get along with ur men cuz of ur temper #love my algerian brothers tho #we just social distance for everyone’s safety ♥️ #and i ain’t allowed italian men cuz mamma said no

[aesthetic-solar-space]

Terms and Conditions by Lauren Asher

435 pages, Published February 24th 2022 - 🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟 Terms and Conditions is the second installment of the Dreamland Billionaires series. This one follows the eldest brother, Declan, and he tries to fulfill his letter from his grandfather. Yet it doesn't quite go to plan as Iris is thrown into the mix in a way neither of them ever thought would happen. At first, I wasn't sure I wanted to read this one due to not really liking Declan in the first one, however, I am beyond happy that I did decide to read this one after all - it was amazing. Iris + Declan 💗

#terms and conditions #lauren asher #dreamland billionaires #billionaires #dreamland #romance #arranged marriage #marriage of convenience #forced proximity #mutual pining #he falls harder #college life #college student #chronicles of a sick person #long live the queue #it was always queue #all queued up #social distancing #adult ish #love #lovers #romantic #couples #marriage #dogs #children #in love #new books #book #book review