crowofjudgements-blog

[crowofjudgements-blog]

Rant from a former Debater

Discourse, debate, and discussion is the foundation of our society. It makes up every aspect of our society -from interpersonal relationships to politics- so, my question is why are journalists reporting online discourse and debate as ‘chronically online’ as if the BASE OF ONLINE JOURNALISM ISN’T ONLINE DISCOURSE AND ONLINE INTERACTION BETWEEN PEOPLE?

Quote from the HuffPost; “On social media, Gen Zers — at least those who are chronically online — are constantly debating the ethics of age gaps.” I’m sorry, but there is discourse to be had about the impacts of people in their late thirties and early forties going after fresh eighteen and nineteen year olds. You can debate where the line can be drawn, where maturity is sufficient, however portraying young people’s upset and resentment towards older people taking advantage of their position over younger people -even celebrities- as chronically online or something to be ashamed of is directly related to our current issue of communication and social interaction.

Debate and discussion cannot be limited to academic spaces. Yes, there have been and will be research papers about the impact of age gaps, however research takes time. People are being affected now. Discourse is necessary to point out the flaws in human society, lest we continuously fail ourselves and our communities with our inability to acknowledge the past. Do better, we deserve to speak to one another.

I could only find the quote from the article in question here- https://dyspepsiageneration.com/?p=369507

There’s a lot to be said on this article alone, and that I can’t find it now, that I can’t get into without jeopardizing my finals I’ll be real honest.

[crowofjudgements-blog]

Kaleidoscope

Astarion x OFC Halaena

Content Warnings: Exploration of past traumas, sfw, mentions of sex and seduction

Synopsis: basically the ‘mirror’ scene but better suited for my character!! Please please leave some feedback in the comments, especially on my characterization of Astarion. I’m working on character development and portrayal in my writing so any feedback is welcome and appreciated!!!

—————————————————————————

The moon hung its full smiling face high amongst the heavens, silvery strands of light danced across the clearing below as the stars themselves seemed content to watch over the enlivened encampment of mere mortals seeking refuge, comforts for the body is soft and easily bruised. Beyond the fire pit where hearth set ablaze dead centre of the camp, Astarion lounged, snow-white curls haloed in the firelight as he cast a pensive gaze across languid bodies lounging unbidden; for now, the looming fear of monsters in the shadows and curses round every corner had dissipated, enough that they were content. In those days, it was a scarce thing to let muscles relax and forget the blood and viscera that paved young adventurers’ path to absolution. Astarion scoffed as he sipped bloodwine from a crystalline goblet; how fragile peace is, shattered as soon as glass on concrete.

Copper lingered heavy on his tongue, choking almost. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so- secure? It was a fragile, fleeting thing, but to be fed and cared for is to be changed. Gone were the empty recesses that lined his face, hollowing out distant eyes that stared unseeing, unknowing. In its place, resplendency curls silky smooth and oiled, skin dewy, lush and plump as he lost the baseness of his deathly pallor, lips pressed into a petulant purse- though it wasn’t like he could see the change, he still felt it. Even he had to admit, this was good, no matter how infuriatingly easy it came in this place.

The object of his ire was that explosive little wizard, Halaena. Even her name grated at his frayed nerves; how could someone like her, someone unbound to the weirdos and malforms that blanketed camp in their obnoxious presence, choose to come anywhere near any of them with a 50-foot pole? Let alone take care of them, offer shelter, food, and comfort? The premise was enough to pull a carted snort from his chest whenever he thought about it for a moment too long. She had no evident reason to protect them, which meant she likely had her own reasons, and Astarion knew just how dangerous personal agendas could be to the greater good.

Do not get it twisted; the pale elf had no interest in the greater good or the whole lot of them. If he had the means, he would have pursued this adventure alone, guarded; after all, the only thing he truly craved was release, freedom from his cruel master. But- often, he found himself in a rather precarious position. On one hand, he was smart enough to know he was in no position to lead himself to the promise of freedom. Most days, his mind was a complete muddle, too awash with his obsession in finding an escape that he’d likely end up getting himself and everyone else killed before they even made it past the threshold of the Gate. On the other hand, this wizard -strike one right off the bat- just showed up one day and whisked him and a whole band of misfits and strays on this wild adventure, and she seemed to be the one person on this earth that Astarion could not seduce.

Of course, it was in his luck to be stuck with the sexless zealot more interested in ancient tomes and spells over touch, connection. It’s not necessarily that he wanted to bed her; quite the opposite, the very thought of being intimate with someone like that again made bile rise in the back of his throat, made his hands tremble and gaze sharpen. No, he didn’t want to sleep with her, but it unnerved him that she didn’t want to, that she shot down his every proposition kike an arrow to his defences, to the very protection he feared he barely clung to.

She just gave without the expectation of anything in return- granted, she was a wizard, so her curious nature and ascetic ways led them astray much more than he cared for, but that irritant did not erase the fact that this lack of transaction made her presence, her care and light, conditional. If he couldn’t perform, couldn’t be a precious doll for her whiles and whims, what was stopping her from simply abandoning him on the side of the road? He’d be left for dead or worse- left a feast for Cazador and his vultures to pick at until there was nothing left but bone and marrow. It-

Scared him.

He raised his gaze from the brim of his goblet when he heard an underfoot rustle approaching; his gaze fluttered up as he caught sight of pearlescent curls and airy amethyst robes. Snowy lashes brushed against the chisel of his cheeks when he finally looked up at Halaena, and he immediately fell into his role; a placating smile curled at the line of his lips; he softened his gaze and watched with apparent rapt attention as Halaena made move to sit nearby.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he cooed as she got settled a few paces away, earning a reproachful snort as she sank back on one of his plush pillows. An orchestra of cicadas and quiet nightlife accompanied them, but even the rest of camp seemed to fade when he looked at her. Seeing the soft vulnerability behind her gaze, a clenching twist in his chest tightened. Astarion found Halaena a trivial, enigmatic thing- one that he most certainly did not want to unravel, mind you. He had his own deals and devils to worry about without giving care to her or her big forlorn eyes, or her issues. Gods, just acknowledging her tasted like bile on his sharp tongue.

“Oh, spare me. I see how you glare,” she giggled and shook her head, looking towards him with those eyes. He hated those eyes—big and bright, alighted with a hope that should have long been crushed. He just wanted to take her squishy cheeks in his palms and shake her head, see if there were any actual brains in there or if it was empty, like he suspected. “How is your daily brooding going, hm? Manage to bore a hole through anyone with your eyes just yet?”

“Ha ha, a wizard making fun of someone else for being broodsome? The comedy writes itself,” he retorted, voice dripping with his signature sarcasm and sass, and a fleeting sense of pride bubbled up in his chest at her cloying laughter. He bristled slightly, all ruffled up like a disgruntled peacock. At the same time, he laid back and followed her gaze, finding her eyes fixated where they usually rested: upturned towards glittering stars and the dark expanse of inky night.

“I suppose I can’t be the cat to call the kettle black; I’ll leave that to the poets, I think,” she mused as she looked down, seeing the little trinkets and baubles strewn haphazardly around. There weren’t many signs of Astarion scarce, even in his own space. Instinctively, Halaena reached out a hand to grasp an ornate handle sticking out from under some blanket or other. If her companion noticed, he didn’t move to stop her as she raised the glass to inspect her face.

The shattered glass reflected a kaleidoscopic view of her visage, distorted and wrong. She frowned as she inspected the thing, ornate in its construction, yet broken, unnecessary to keep around. She looked to Astarion then, seeing his eyes reflect a hunger that wasn’t obsessive or indicative of a desire to devour- no, they were bitter and longing, even though he tried to mask it behind a heavy brow. Her thumb brushed over the gilded applique decorating this beautiful thing- a mirror far more beautiful than anything it could ever reflect.

“Vanity is the fall of man, but it is nice to see oneself,” she finally said, not ignorant to the flare of his nostrils or how his shoulders tensed.

“Let it be-”

“How long has it been then? Since- you last saw yourself, I mean.”

Astarion stared at her so long she thought he meant to kill her with the viciousness brimming behind his eyes. His hands flexed at his side momentarily as he struggled to choke back a biting response, something cruel, something to make her feel. Instead, he swallowed down his words and looked at the mirror, gaze intense, before he opened his mouth to speak.

“Long before your mother first set eyes upon her precious babe, I know that much,” he bristled as he plucked his wine goblet from beside him and took a quick, placating gulp. Warmth flooded his senses, and before he spoke again, Astarion let out a grumbled huff. “Not since- well, not since Cazador turned me into this undead creature,” he scoffed, bitterness overtaking any warm lilt and the lingering saccharine taste that usually coated his tongue. She set the mirror aside with an almost wistful nod, her touch brushing against it one last time before her attention shifted back to the pale elf.

“I’m sorry.” The words almost made him snort; so simple and yet intangible in the grand scheme. A single apology didn’t erase two centuries of torment and certainly did not paint him a reflection. He watched her with baleful eyes, pale brows knitted tight as she moved to sit before him on her knees with her hands clasped in her lap. He felt the familiar crackle of the Weave pulsing in the air around them, a sudden shift in the nighttime chill. Halaena looked at Astarion as though her eyes themselves could offer an embrace, seeing into him as though he were pitch as glass.

Finally, she dropped her gaze to a pulsing manifestation of magic erupting from her palms, coiling up her arms as she raised her hand. Instinctively, the spawn jerked away from her magical light, an instinct borne from years running from the sun. But instinct quickly gave way to curiosity as he observed her weaving of magic. Even Astarion, for all his spangled sass and suspicion, could admit there was a kind of beauty in watching the stitching of Weave, especially in her well-orchestrated hands. He wasn’t entirely sure what she was doing, at least not until the energetic amalgamation of magic began to take shape.

Ghostly features took shape; a face moulded like putty in the air with the grace of embroidery, the planes and lines almost familiar to him even now. Pale and resplendent, but ghostly, hollow, a reflection of him written in the Weave. Upon closer inspection, he noticed it wasn’t exact- of course, it matched his essence. He was looking at himself, but the heaviness of his eyes was much softer than he would have expected, alabaster skin imperfect with lines that characterized this reflection with kindness so foreign to him it burned the edges of his ribs, cloying, clawing, even his mouth lacked its usual mirthless smirk, replaced with dewy lips pulled into what could only be a genuine, sweet line, almost a smile, no matter how faint. It wasn’t what he’d envisioned when he saw himself, no hard lines or rugged charm, there wasn’t the barest hint of seduction reflected back at him. This was undoubtedly a warmer, kinder visage. When Astarion’s eyes flickered tentatively, quickly, towards Halaena, he saw a face of curious wonder: pale lashes lined wide, inquisitive eyes, all smiles and bashful interest.

So, again, Astarion was faced with such a disdainful conundrum. She seemed so genuine; where pretty words lie, one cannot simply fake reflection. Quiet moments of introspection, studying dusky skin, wild, kindly eyes that shone back the Weave in reverence, disarrayed curls of near pearlescent white- how he despised the folly of man. His eyes snapped back to the spectral figure lingering in the air, a fleeting memory actualized. “That’s me?” He nearly laughed at how disbelieving he sounded to himself, but all the wizard did was nod.

“Perfectly preened curls and all,” she mused, a warm lilt in her voice as she casually turned the spectre in the air, slow and languid. She watched his visage a while, too- admiring the simple beauty crafted in the thread of her Weave. Such gentle intricacies and reverent touches sculpted into his face. It cast such a pretty purple glow across his features. “I know, in a way, what it’s like to have such a large part of oneself pulled out of them, worse than pulling teeth,” she quirked an edged grin, “I know time heals and all of that, but you know if we don’t have all that much time left I figured; you deserve to see your face at the very least.”

Astarion swallowed hard, his pupils darting between the spectral image and her face, meeting her gaze finally. Vampire and wizard stared each other down unblinking and estranged as though those eyes had anything further to scrutinize one another. After a long silence, Astarion’s mask returned all biting mirth and barely contained resentment. “Right, I get to see my face, that’s it? What do you get? What is it you see here?” His voice came out venomous as he stole his gaze back to the visage.

The quiet stretched like an expansive cavern between them; the crackling fire and bordering camp-wide chatter accompanied the pair before Astarion noticed the slight wavering in the fabric edges of his projection’s face. His brows pulled together as wide eyes sought the last traces of this magic’s hold before his face faded before blood-laced vision. The clearing dimmed, the faint glow of the firelight offering the only illumination as Astarion sank back on his haunches, a twinge of painful longing nipping at the hollow cage of his ribs. He noticed the Drow then, soft gaze fixed on him as she awaited his collected bearings.

“Most times, I just see you.’” Such simple words, simple, were they? If so, why did Astarion’s mouth go dry, and why did he feel the barest traces of a fluttered heartbeat echo in his chest? Such mortality was alien, near monstrous in his vampiric existence. Vulnerability quickly felt like exposure, and the man shot to his feet, eyes ablaze as he glared down at Halaena. His mind stuttered, entirely short-circuited, when he saw her big eyes staring up at him, not a hint of malice behind them- or thought, for that matter.

He let out a strangled sigh before he cast his gaze downward, a hint of melancholy briefly flashing across the furrowed planes of his face before the tension slumped from his pale form. Astarion straightened himself up, looking up at the starry night sky to avoid the wizard’s stare and the darkness that crept around them. “Right-“ he looked like he wanted to say more, needed to say more, but the little star lost its emboldened fury, replaced simply by Astarion, who stood there truly not knowing what he could do. He hated this helplessness, the confrontation of not just her but himself. Words felt biting on his tongue, rationalisation like razors. He was overwhelmed, and so, defaulted on what he knew best.

“I’d love to stick around and chat, darling, but I’m afraid I have rather important things to attend to before the night’s end,” he hissed with a tight-lipped smile and narrowed eyes. I’ll leave you to your conjurations; far be it from me to spoil the fun.” He was about to leave, flee into the forest to drain an unruly bear or something, when he heard her speak up, and he froze.

“The woods are a terror this time of night, Astarion. You can always find me in my tent for an easier meal.” She stood then, craning her head to look up at him. The pair stood together, bathed in a silvery wash of moonlight, and Astarion only nodded after casting his sights away once more. She didn’t push him to look at her, only smiled and nodded in return before she moved past him and headed back to the crimson-gold canvas of her tent set up towards the centre of camp. Astarion didn’t watch her go, instead looking over to the edge of the woods.

The forest beyond the temporary camp comforts called to him, a siren’s song away from the raw, gaping pain he felt incessantly in his chest. He ran a hand through snowy white curls, irritated, tugging on his pretty locks as he raked sharp fingers over his scalp. The trees and underbrush hid a veritable feast—succulent game would put up a fair chase. He could snag some birds for a crunchy snack or fight some big beast for the satisfaction of stealing away his meal, their lifeblood.

He looked over his shoulder towards Halaena’s tent, seemingly undisturbed as it stood sturdy amongst the shadows. He swallowed hard; he’d be a fool to deny that her offer didn’t intrigue him. But that part of him, the recesses of Astarion’s consciousness cautioned him against this inevitability. He’d supped from her before, finding the blood of a Drow quite delectable comparatively, and he’d be lying if he said there wasn’t a pull to that tent, to the tasty little morsel curled up amongst her silks and furs. Dry mouth and twitching hands, Astarion looked back to the forest once more. It loomed large, an imposition ready to swallow him whole. Furs and silks sounded more satisfactory than a romp in the mud for mediocre blood.

Decision made, the vampire turned on his heel and headed toward the centre of camp, where she lay reposed. He stepped upon his broken mirror, left discarded upon his blankets with a telltale crunch of glass splintering and crunching undertow.

[crowofjudgements-blog]

Fibromyalgia is the most critical look at the long term effects of trauma on children.

It was one of the first avenues we explored when trying to diagnose my chronic illness that rendered me in debilitating pain BEFORE I WAS EVEN 18 PEOPLE.

While Fibromyalgia is generally present, it remains dormant in the body until triggered, and outside factors in the environment hugely influence how and when it activates. Emotional trauma is believed to be one of, if not the largest contributors to Fibromyalgia activating and symptoms starting to manifest.

We view trauma through psychological repression and emotional damage that we forget the body keeps tabs, for a lot of us it becomes actual pain. For some of us, that happens when we are children. And in a society and school system that you either succeed or drown in, you’re useless if you can’t do anything because your mind and body is literally ravaged by the experiences that OTHER PEOPLE inflicted on you.

I took no risks as a child, I was afraid of getting hurt. I never experienced any significant bodily or head injuries as a child, never so much as a broken bone. Physical trauma is the other huge trigger for Fibromyalgia, so where’s that possibility? When was I a child long enough to get childhood injuries??

For them, it was a fleeting moment. For us, it closed the world.

[crowofjudgements-blog]

Kill your sons, lest they kill your daughters.

Awake in dusk, silvery moonlight filtered through sheer curtains

White brocade on cherub skin, rosy cheeks awash in delight,

Pudgy fingers poke and prod, rings and bells sound beyond in revelry

even as bright-eyed babes stare at the grandeur of the altar

Cathedral-length skirts gather behind, she trips, unpracticed feet padding with uncertainty,

Oh sweet love, how old were you when they ripped you apart?

Six, seven, eight, it matters not,

When daughters pay in penitence for the sins of their forebears, pay in blood and innocence

On a bed of lies, a bed of matrimony cradles your girls in an unspoken inferno,

Scorching skin as honeybees suckle at sweet nectar, leaving her to rot in the maggots left behind.

So tell me then, about the innocence of men,

When babies prattle and cry in the cradle

To meet their fates at the altar in the same breath.

I say we kill our sons, lest they kill our daughters first,

Stripping flesh, bone, and marrow,

Hope, dreams, and sorrow,

Our daughters die as you flout your haloed curls at the seat of your table,

Breathing in dewy skin, tasting salty tears,

Down with the kings, and the men

Who watch them place that ring on her hand.

Just wait until, Mother Earth is infertile,

Crops doubled over in languid agony, stalks ripped open,

Lick sticky sap from reddened fingertips,

Suck gelatinous fat from bone,

The gods have never atoned for their mock Judithian justice,

Blood borne from an unholy sin, spread down trembling thighs,

Spread across greyed skirts

Swift and drastic, oh, you didn’t kill the boys, did you?

Well, I suppose it never really mattered, did it?

Sweet little ladies, sweet innocence is unnecessary

[crowofjudgements-blog]

Not yet corpses, still we rot

Mother Mystra, what more do you want?

Based on John Everett Millais “The Martyr of Solway” and this INCREDIBLE piece https://www.tumblr.com/ecairnsart/740708512607485952/just-finished-up-this-bg3-commission-for please give them all the love you can!!!

Didn’t decide to post the fully coloured version of this but oh well, she looks statuesque anyways. I’m also obsessed with her big wet and sad kitty cat eyes, she’s literally all I’ve ever wanted

I have to break Gale’s heart soon in my current playthrough for the plot but it makes me CRY WHY CAN’T I TALK TO HIM ABOUT IT I JUST WANT TO APOLOGIZE BRO 😭😭

Luckily there’s a guiding star at camp to help pick up the pieces ♥️

Anyways, I will always stand by the fact that it’s the women and innocents who suffer the most when gods play with power, so that’s basically the thesis of her character- though she is chaotic good so she said ‘fuck the thesis’ 💀

Anyways, here’s the collage I made that set my artist heart off today.

Women need to cry more, may we drown those who sought our destruction in tears and blood.

[crowofjudgements-blog]

Soror mea, connexa per dolores

Halaena 🤝 Karlach:

Having awesome mom’s who tried everything in their power and life to protect their little girls only to be slain and forced to watch her suffer from the afterlife 🥰

While Karlach isn’t her love interest THIS TIME I literally yearn for the sweet embrace of the forbidden kiln over here 😔

Also introducing my main BG3 oc Halaena Daimos 💀

A Seldarine Underdark exile forced from her home after her contact with the Weave caused a significant explosion of arcane energy and killed a bunch of people. Now she’s a Wizard female drow in a world that despises her very essence, constantly torn between following her mother’s path to Eilistraee and personal choice or yielding to the will of Mystra (both goddesses directly play a huge role in Halaena’s life)

In other words, she’s just a girl and she did nothing wrong, your honour 😔

P.S. Daimos ain’t her last name, you’ll have to find Qilué to figure that out 😉

[crowofjudgements-blog]

Dude I can’t reboot this enough ☹️

King Aegon II Targaryen and his family, circa 129 AC From Left: Otto Hightower, Aegon II Targaryen, Aemond, Daeron (in portrait), Jaehaerys, Alicent Hightower, Queen Helaena Targaryen, Maelor, Jaehaera

The Young Queen Jaehaera Targaryen with her grandmother, Alicent Hightower, circa 131 AC

Also on Insta

[crowofjudgements-blog]

So I decided to just steal the spiderverse style entirely and drew my girlfriend and I 😭

I know she’s beautiful ♥️

Came to the very very sad realization that my paleness truly knows no bounds, as if my foundation always being the lightest shade wasn’t enough of a clue.

Regardless, I’m having so much fun exploring spider verse and the style and my partner and I really love the story and characters (I’m a Peter B lover, they LOVE Miguel)

Anyways, I hope y’all like this. It only took like six hours to do both of these pieces but you know.

Also, for a hint of comedy, here’s a comparison between both of our SUMMER SHADES

You heard it right, folks. That egg shell white ass colour is my SUMMER SHADE. My girlfriend’s beautiful tan really brings out the sickly Victorian lad in me 😭

[crowofjudgements-blog]

Heyy!

I saw your posts about your spidersona (?) Bonnie, and I wanted to ask if you have random fun facts about them (things like they usually dress their cat in cute clothing)!

I found you character really interesting, so I'd like to know more about them :)

Hi!! Thank you so much for your ask. I'm literally fiending for any reason to talk about this crazy cat lady

Bonnie grew up in and out of the foster care system up until her father went to prison when she was 14.

She took on her mother's last name because their father refused to sign the birth certificate of a daughter.

She raised her two younger twin siblings from the time she was 14

They had the entirety of her undergraduate degree (philosophy, housing, and Juris Doctor in New York paid for in scholarships and bursaries (she's a damn smart cookie).

During their post-secondary education, Bonnie worked as a cam girl to help support her siblings back home and would frequently make trips back to New Orleans to make sure they were taken care of.

She had a deep, irrational fear of clowns.

Bonnie's world and New York are harshly polluted and damaged to the point of no return. The age expectancy is like 50 years old because of how bad it is. There's literal acid rain every once in a while.

Bonnie lives in a tiny studio apartment with barely a pot to piss in. The contents of their apartment are as follows; an air mattress, a fold-out chair, a box television, ALL the cat necessities, and a spork. (This lady is destitute)

She takes better care of her cat than they take care of themself.

Fenêtre's full name is Fenêtre Maximilien Alexandre-Beauchamp Soileau and he is a distinguished little gentleman (street rat).

Bonnie, as it stands, is not currently working at the age of 32. They took bereavement leave after the death of her fiancé and could just... never bring herself to go back, couldn't stand their coworker's pity.

Bonnie was bitten by her spider later in life, around 31, around the time when her fiancé died and she had to terminate her pregnancy (that's right!! They were briefly pregnant)

She mainly survives on fiending and gambling.

The judicial system never gave her justice for the murder of her fiancé so, well, they had to take it into her own hands (she killed his murderers in cold blood).

Her New York thinks they're a villain.

Bonnie nearly beat the daylights out of Peter when they first met because he interrupted a poker game she was about to win big on (prick).

Fenêtre is just as sassy, if not more so, as Bonnie.

Bonnie never really celebrated holidays as a child so as an adult they go all out, but their decorations are always ass. Think of a bald Christmas tree. Literally no one tells them though, they just let her live in their delusional happiness.

She does, in fact, dress Fenêtre up in little sweaters, especially around winter cause they don't want their baby to freeze (he's a Serbian cat, a literal ball of fluff).

Bonnie has a terribly weakened immune system which only got worse after they were bitten so she's frequently sick and bed-bound.

Bonnie LOVES ferry boats, to an unhealthy degree.

Bonnie instantly became friends with Hobie Brown and those two are menaces together. They cause absolute chaos in the Spider Society and laugh about it over tea and buttered biscuits.

That's all I have for now!! Please let me know if you want any specific information or if you'd like me to dive into any part of this character. They're my passion project, I foam at the mouth for her. Thank you for your ask :) In the meantime, enjoy this image of a very happy Fenê.

[crowofjudgements-blog]

I did a study on the Spiderverse art style and BOY GOLLY THIS IS THE BEST PIECE OF ARTWORK I HAVE EVER CREATED. No joke, this took three hours to make and out of all the hundreds of hours of digital art content I’ve created this is my favourite and I am so proud. I don’t typically create art for anyone but myself and maybe my partner so this post is a first for me so be kind, constructive criticism only.

Anyhoodles, if you hadn’t guessed all ready this is my Spiderverse original character. Her name is Bonibel “Bonnie” Soileau aka the amazing Venom Weaver! A few fun facts to get to know them.

- Bonnie uses She/They pronouns

- She is New Orleans born and raised!! (That’s right, baby, she’s a French speaker!! (But only Canadian French because I have no clue how to speak Louisiana French 💀))

- In my au they are Peter B. Parker’s love interest

- She has a sassy Siberian cat named Fenêtre who also acts as their emotional support animal

- This lady is southern on every account. She’s sassy, mean, and she will tell you how it is no matter how it makes you feel

- they are the worst kind of hermit. Literally live in squalor because they refuse to spend money on furniture

- Gambling addict but she can play a mean game of poker

- They started off as a vigilante killer avenging the death of her fiancé

- Ironically, she’s a criminal prosecutor (my lady is educated)

- She has vitiligo and heterochromia

Anyways, if y’all want to know more please let me know!! She’s my hyperfixation, a lot of love and care went into the creation of this lovely lady.

[crowofjudgements-blog]

Are you going to watch "Madame Web"?

Hi hi!! Congratulations on being my first ask :)

As for Madame Web, I’m honestly not too sure. I haven’t heard all that much about it yet and I’m definitely the type of person who needs to know about a thing before I consume it? If that makes sense??? Anyways, I don’t know. I definitely need to broaden my consumption of movies so I’ll have to look into it.

- Crow

[crowofjudgements-blog]

Shattered Vows - Chapter 1

Peter B. Parker (ASTV) x Bonnie Soileau (original character)

Important information: Bonnie uses she/they pronouns and so the pronouns used to refer to them will alternate.

Bars in New York had a certain decrepit charm to them. The bustling of patrons bumbling about, searching for their next fix of liquid courage to ease their weary souls. The Pour House was no different to this. It was just a small pub on the east side of Manhattan. It was, to put it lightly, a diamond in the rough. The inside reeked of piss and hopelessness, the creaky barstools and perpetually sticky booths were scuffed and scratched from years of misuse, and the televisions only tuned to one channel; a foreign station that only showed elaborate dog shows or promoted the next skinny tea or what-have-you. Contrary to what you’d believe, the Pour House was one of the more popular bars on that side of the city, a fact that generally meant that the tips were great.

Bonibel Soileau wiped back her sweat-soaked hair as she wiped down the counters, grimacing as they brought the cloth over a particularly nasty spot of grime. Friday evenings always drew out the crowds, and Bonnie certainly had their work cut out for them. While she had pockets stuffed with cash tips and the occasional loose piece of candy, she was worked to the bone making sure the patrons were taken care of, the bar was as pristine as its porous wood surface allowed, and their coworkers weren’t drowned in the influx of customers. To say she was stressed would be a gross understatement. They rubbed at her red-ringed eyes and tossed the cloth back into its murky solution of water and diluted cleaner. She had to practically peel their bangs from her forehead as they made their way over to a customer and took their order. The sound of trashy 2000s pop blasted from overhead speakers to drown out the sounds of petty arguments and slurred words as Bonnie poured watered-down beer from the tap before they slid it over to the customer. She leaned against the bar and sighed, rubbing at their temples to try and soothe the pounding in her head before they felt a rhythmic buzzing in her pocket.

They frowned and looked down as they pulled out their bedazzled flip phone, eyes narrowing when she saw the caller ID. She scoffed and flipped it open, blood running cold when she saw how many missed calls she had. She quickly pulled off her apron, mind racing as they quickly ran to the back, informing her boss she was going out for a smoke break. They stowed out into the alleyway and immediately redialed the number, anxiously pacing around the small alley as they went through all of the text messages. Texts demanding she returns the calls, that they needed to get off their ass and call back. Bonnie felt rage bubble up in their chest as the phone let out extended rings, blood boiling as it went on. Finally, he picked up the phone and Bonnie brought it to her ear.

“Charles, what the fuck? You know damn well you can’t call me like that when I’m at work, good lord,” they growled, southern drawl thick with her stress. She heard her ex-husband scoff on the other end, the sounds of passing cars and his turn signal beeping ringing through the phone.

“Lighten up, Bonibel, you need to fucking relax,” Charles countered, cursing under his breath, “Listen, something came up so you need to take Madeleine earlier. I’m on my way now.” Bonnie felt their chest tighten and they immediately brought a hand up to rub at the bridge of their nose.

“No- I can’t, you know I’m working a double, I’m not supposed to have her until Saturday,” they said quickly, practically feeling his annoyance radiating through the phone.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Bonibel. You need to get your ass home and be a mother before I call up the attorney,” he warned and Bonnie felt their heart pit out in their chest. Her mind raced through everything, she wasn’t even fully unpacked, Maddy wouldn’t have anywhere to sleep, she’d have to find someone to cover, she’d-

“Please just- let me finish up my shift. Please, I need to finish up and find someone to take over. Please, Charles, take her out for dinner or something, I’ve got fifteen left on this shift. I’ll even wire you the money to take her out. Just- please,” she begged quietly, holding their hand over the receiver. There was silence on the other end before she heard him grumble something to their daughter in the back seat.

“Fine, fine. You’ve got thirty minutes to get home. I don’t care what you’ve gotta do but you’ll be home or I will be contacting the custody office,” he snarled before hanging up. Bonnie quickly shoved their phone into her pocket once more and hurried back into the bar, tying back her apron as she approached her manager and hurriedly explained the situation. Jill had always been sympathetic to her situation, and though reluctant, offered to take up her next shift. Bonnie felt the tension relieved in their shoulders when she begrudgingly agreed and she quickly went back to man the bar before Jill changed her mind. Mostly everyone at the bar was a regular and had all ready been cared for, however, Bonnie saw a new face straying at the end of the bar, engrossed in the latest paraded pomeranian on the screen above his head. She frowned and approached him. Just one more customer, she could deal with one more.

She cleared her throat when they approached the man, startling him from his engrossment. He looked back at her with a deer-in-headlights expression before his face softened upon seeing her uniform. “Hey there, sugar, you been helped yet?” she smiled, leaning against the bar. The man shook his head, glancing up at the television for a split second before he turned his attention back to her.

“Nope, not just yet. Was just about to flag you down, actually,” he yawned, rubbing at his stubbled jaw as he scrunched his face, “I’ll just have your cheapest scotch over light ice,” he hummed, a request that earned a short snort from Bonnie.

“My kinda drink,” they quipped as she pulled out a chilled glass and filled the bottom with pebbled ice before they poured out one of their cheaper liquor. Sure, it smelled and tasted like battery acid but it’d get you drunk in a pinch. She slid the glass over to the guy, the latter snatching it up and immediately going in for a gulp. Bonnie watched with a bemused look, leaning against the counter as she watched his face contort, honeyed eyes widening as he took a big sip of his drink. The man started hacking and coughing in a fit and Bonnie laughed at his reaction, shaking their head as she pushed away from the bar and went to queue up a tab for him, “yeah, that ain’t an all-in-one-gulp sorta drink,” they teased as she typed up on the screen, eyes catching him watching her, “can I get a name for the tab, please?” she hummed, observing as the man set his drink down and donned a scrunched up nose.

“Could have warned me before I went all in, you know,” he huffed, taking an amble sip from his drink. He acknowledged her question with a hum, “Peter,” he offered, hearing the tap of her fingers against the little screen.

“All right then, just flag me down whenever you want another drink, all right? If I’m not there someone else will be happy to help you out,” she hummed, watching as Peter nodded and slid over a few bills. She cocked up a brow and took the two singles, thanking him as she shoved them in their apron and went to finish up her last few obligations before she left.

Peter sat at the bar and watched the dog show above, slowly sipping on his drink. The liquid burned down his throat and left a pit of nausea seated in his gut. It wasn’t all that pleasant, however, he didn’t fully mind it. He simply sat there idly and enjoyed the show, minding his own when a sudden pain shot through his head. He grimaced and brought his hand up to his head, scrunching his eyes closed as his senses went into overdrive. He groaned softly as his senses tapered off to a low hum and Peter mentally prepared himself for what was to come. He shot up, knocking over his drink in the process, and bolted out, unencumbered by the bartender calling after him to pay off his tab. He disappeared through the crowd leaving Bonnie standing there, unpaid tab and a nasty sludge of now congealed scotch running down the bar. They groaned and grabbed the washcloth, wringing it out before they went over to wipe down the bar.

“We really shouldn’t be selling this shit to people,” they grumbled.

♡♡♡

The bus pulled up a few blocks from Bonnie’s apartment, the exhausted bartender reluctantly getting up from their seat. She thanked the bus driver before they began the arduous 3-block trek back to her building. With every step their bones ached and she was thankful they didn’t have to stick around for another shift. Her building soon came into view, and so did that all-too-familiar red 2006 Ford Escape. They took a deep breath in and hesitantly approached the vehicle, catching sight of Charles’s lips pressed tightly together and his brow furrowed when he saw her. He rolled down the window and shot Bonnie a glare.

“You reek like booze, have you been drinking?” he shot her an accusatory glower. Bonnie’s nostrils flared as they went to the back door and carefully opened it, leaning in to unbuckle Maddy from her seat. The tired girl whined in protest and clung to her mom, the latter looking up to the driver’s seat.

“You know I’m not allowed to drink on the job,” she said shortly as they scooped Maddy into her arms and cradled her head against the crook of their neck, “did you end up going out?” she asked, gently soothing her sleeping daughter as she quietly closed the door and went back up to Charles’s open window.

“Just got some fast food, you know how it is,” he waved dismissively. Bonnie frowned but nodded, pressing a kiss to the side of Maddy’s head.

“Right- well, I’ll see you next Friday. I’ll have Maddy call you tomorrow night,” they nodded, earning a glare from Charles.

“Her name is Madeleine. What kind of mother can’t even call her daughter by her name,” he snarled. Bonnie bit the insides of her cheeks and simply nodded, not looking for a fight at that point. Maddy raised her head, eyes heavy as Charles beckoned his daughter towards him, leaning in to kiss her forehead. “I’ll see you soon, pumpkin,” he cooed, ruffling up her hair before Bonnie pulled back and watched the car pull out of the turnabout. Bonnie stared after the car for a few moments before hearing the tired croak of Maddy telling her she was cold. Bonnie gently rubbed a hand over Maddy’s back and turned on their heels to head into the apartment building, a blast of warm air immediately hitting the pair once they stepped past the threshold.

The elevator up to the tenth floor was quiet, the sounds of Maddy’s gentle breathing soothing Bonnie as the elevator creaked and hauled the duo up to her apartment. It dinged once they’d reached their floor and Bonie quietly padded over the carpeted hallway to her apartment. They shifted their hold on Maddy and carefully dug into their apron to pull out their keys, fiddling around before they found the right one and jangled the lock open. They moved to set Maddy down on the couch, helping the girl shed her shoes before they went over to the door and pulled off their own sneakers. She grumbled and rubbed at the sore soles of their feet, grimacing as they brushed the pad of their thumb over a blister formed on their heel. She sighed and sat down, looking around the apartment. Moving boxes piled on every available space. Even though it had been weeks since they’d moved in she didn’t have the will to unpack just yet. Everything still felt so fresh and raw the thought of unpacking her life and putting it back together again made them physically ill. Their eyes fell on Maddy, quietly asleep on the couch, and she smiled softly.

From another room, Bonnie heard the chaotic crash of boxes as little tiny feet barrelled into the living room. She was assaulted by the tiny yowls of her cat, Fenêtre, the black fluffball excited to see his mom. Bonnie donned a bemused grin and shook their head, scoffing playfully as they followed the beckoning cat into the kitchen. “What is it, hm? You hungry, sweetie? You poor thing, must’ve just run out,” she cooed, seeing the few remnants of kibble still collected at the bottom of the bowl. It didn’t take long for them to pour out a bowl of food for the demanding kitty. “Good grief, little love, you’re a glutton is what you are,” they snorted and gave him a few head scratches before they grabbed some clean-ish clothes and towels from one of her boxes. She was grimy and sweaty and in desperate need of some creature comforts.

Before they made their way towards the bathroom Bonnie grabbed one of their blankets from her little makeshift bed and brought it over to the couch, draping the comforter over Maddy’s sleeping form. She smiled warmly and kneeled beside the couch, pushing the girl’s hair back as they pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. Her daughter unconsciously snuggled into the plush fabric of the blanket and Bonnie gently ruffled up her hair before they pulled away from the couch and headed into the bathroom, running the warm water for a much-needed shower. They glanced in the mirror and grimaced at the evidence of her exhaustion; her red-rimmed eyes, sunken cheeks, dry and chapped lips, scraggly hair, it all just made her groan and attempt to wipe the tiredness from her face before she turned to strip down.

Her body trembled softly at the sudden coldness invading her senses. Their skin goosebumped and reddened ever so slightly before they stepped into the shower and sighed as the warm water flowed over their tired skin, alleviating the tension built up from the day. She just stood there for a long time, not daring to move as the water dulled her senses. Their shoulders slumped forward and Bonnie found themselves wiping at her face, feeling the beginnings of hot tears welling up in the corners of their eyes. They let out an exasperated laugh and shook her head, opting to grab her old loofah. She globbed some old children’s body wash onto the mesh and began scrubbing incessantly at her skin, mind dulling as she watched her arms redden under her intense rubbing.

♡♡♡

It was around one in the morning when Peter Benjamin Parker stumbled through the open window to his apartment, wheezing and aching after the intensity of the fight. He trembled uncontrollably as he crawled over to his mattress and sunk back onto it, letting out a pained groan as the blankets enveloped his body. He reached up and haphazardly pulled at his mask, cool air invading his senses as he rubbed at the fresh bruises and cuts on his face. Though his accelerated healing factor was certainly setting in by then, he could still feel the sting of pain as he brushed his gloved hand over the gashes on his stubbled chin.

He sat up reluctantly and pulled at the fabric of his suit, wincing somewhat as the spandex pulled away from his sore skin. He grumbled upon seeing the extent of his injuries before he tossed his suit into a pile of dirty laundry somewhere in the corner. He rubbed at his eyes as he got up from the mattress and moved to head to the kitchen, however, in his borderline-delirious stupor, Peter accidentally knocked into some moving boxes. They tumbled to the ground and Peter grimaced as the nightly silence that often accompanied such early hours was broken by the loud crash and breaking of glass. Comically, the crashing did not stop there, and like a domino effect, a few other boxes followed suit, falling to their demise and breaking whatever contents lay haphazardly shoved into the cardboard.

“Oh fuck me,” Peter growled and kicked a box out of his way. He couldn’t care to tidy up whatever he’d just messed up at that point. He tried to resume his trek to his kitchen once more, however, something made him pause. His senses tingled as something approached his door, something that clearly wasn’t happy. He flinched somewhat as that something began banging on his door. It was just a few raps, however, the boom of a fist connecting with the door made it evident enough that he really didn’t want to open up. He stilled and stayed quiet for a long while, hoping that whoever it was would get bored and just leave. Of course, he wasn’t that lucky, and the banging came back with a vengeance. He cursed silently under his breath and advised the banger that he'd be there in just a moment. He struggled to pull on a pair of grease-stained sweatpants as he hopped his way to the front. Peter took in a deep breath before he slowly turned the knob and opened the door just enough to see whoever insisted on breaking down his door that early in the morning. He was startled back at the person in front of him, a glint of familiarity shining in his eyes.

The bartender stood on the other side of the door, arms crossed underneath her chest as she glared up at Peter. Her hair was damp and clung to their neck and their face was scrubbed clean of the makeup she’d previously donned but it was unmistakably them. Peter poked his head from behind the door and looked at her, offering an expectant look as she straightened out.

“Do you have any idea what time it is and you’re makin’ that much raucous? Do you have any goddamned decency?” she whisper-yelled, face contorted into a furious scowl. Peter frowned somewhat and opened his mouth to speak, however, the little firecracker in front of him immediately shut him up, cutting him off before he even had the chance, “you need to quiet the fuck down, people are trying to sleep, children are trying to sleep. I swear to god if you don’t shut up-” she stopped and narrowed their eyes, stepping closer to the door. Peter backed up some and watched as she gripped the edge of the door and swung it open enough to see his face. Recognition spread across her features before the scowl returned, “you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me, you’re the jackass who didn’t pay his tab, Peter, right?” they snarled, shoving a finger to his chest, “I don’t have the time nor the patience to deal with you right now. You shut the fuck up and pay your tab, that shit comes outta my paycheque if you don’t.”

“Right right, sorry about that,” Peter grunted out, watching the deep-seated frown on the woman’s face. She turned and stormed back to their apartment beside his, not in the mood to chastise him anymore that night. Peter felt a familiar bubble of sass curdling up his throat and before he could stop it he blurted out, “awe, c’mon now, don’t be like that. Does this mean we can’t be buddies? What a shame.” The woman shot a glare over their shoulder and offered up an obscene hand gesture in response, quickly opening their door and essentially slamming it shut behind her. Peter flinched at the sound and grumbled as he shut his door and reset the deadbolt, rubbing at his stubbled throat, nostrils flaring as he went back to his kitchen. He pulled out a box of day-old pizza and grabbed a slice, biting into the cold dough. He brushed his hand over his face, feeling that most of his previous bruising and gashes had mostly cleared up. He sighed and trudged back to his living room, plopping himself back on his mattress as he chowed down on his cold pizza and flipped on his television, clicking on one of his preferred nature channels.

He leaned into the bed, weary eyes fixated on the little puffins honking about across his screen. He sighed and turned onto his back, taking another bite before he set the pizza slice somewhere on his mattress, much too tired to continue eating. He felt the weight of the day crashing down on him and it took all of Peter’s strength not to start bawling out like a baby right then and there. The familiar prickles of tears in his eyes and sharp rawness erupted in his nostrils and Peter groaned softly, burying his face into his pillow as his body shook with unshed sobs. He ached for comfort as he yanked his blanket up and settled into his bed, trembling as the sounds of the narrator and puffins on his television became white noise and lolled him into a state of whatever relaxation he could achieve. He turned over and curled up into the fetal position, hugging his knees to his chest as he sniffled and scrunched his eyes shut. Maybe tomorrow would be a better day? Yeah, he held out hope that the next day would be better.

The battered hero’s tears slicked down his cheeks and dried up as he nuzzled his face into the plush pillow beneath his head, taking in the familiar atmosphere and scent of his apartment. He rocked himself gently and eventually soothed himself down enough to fall asleep, the day was forgotten as he fell into a flitting sleep, Yeah, tomorrow would be better.