#and that's what matters

[dandelion-blues]

So true. I want to write fanfiction because it's fun. Yes, I want to write really well and for it to be received well, but that doesn't change that I wrote because I wanted to. It's not a job or a chore - it's part of my interests put on display in fun and imaginative ways.

At some point "fanfic can be as good as professional writing" became "fanfic should be as good as professional writing" and that's caused major damage to fandom spaces.

[ecstarry]

@jegulus-microfic / trophy / 198 words / first kiss

“What do you want? A trophy?” Regulus scoffed.

“Something like that, yeah,” James took a step closer, a smirk on his face. 

“I’m not patient enough to guess, James.”

“A kiss, Regulus,” he said teasingly. 

Regulus felt a blush creeping up his cheeks and quickly responded before James could notice, “Whatever, get it over with.”

It was like slow motion—he watched as James leaned down, felt his hands finally touch the back of his neck, one hand tangling in his curls, the other gently holding his face. And then, James' lips pressed softly against his. 

Oh.

They had been driving each other mad for months, swearing they couldn’t stand one another. Maybe it had always been this—the denial, the frustration, all building up because deep down, this was what they both wanted. Regulus knew it now, maybe he’d known from the first moment he laid eyes on James Potter, or perhaps from the first time he heard him laugh. But now, tasting him, feeling him this close, there was no denying it. 

James pulled back slightly, their lips still barely touching. “Regulus,” he whispered.

“Not yet, don’t stop,” Regulus breathed.

He wanted James. He wanted all of him.

[the-bi-fangirl-biatch]

if i got a nickel for seeing a ship end with a chatacter who leaves to do something greater/fulfilling their purpose and help more ppl, but at the expense of leaving the love of their life alone and letting them lose their previous purpose...I'd get two nickels. which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice.

[nelkcats]

False Identity

Danny knew that if he wanted to escape Amity and all the chaos that was his life he needed to get a fake identity, move and go as far away as possible. He could probably ask Tucker or Technus, but he felt it was something he had to do on his own.

He made arrangements, destroyed the portal, said goodbye and ended up moving to Gotham. However his hacking job wasn't so good and he was discovered in an instant by the bats.

They decided to investigate him instead of confronting him directly, following Jim's advice that not everyone was running because of something malicious, Danny didn't do anything out of the ordinary.

He seemed to be adjusting to Gotham which was weird on it's own but the strangest thing he did was get a job in Penguin's Iceberg Lounge but that was more because of his job search than anything else.

His past records also showed nothing more than a child with poor grades and troubling injuries, probably caused by neglectful parents.

Damian began to fear the worst and hid the adoption papers.

[hirakiyois]

and even in the darkest of times, we had tattoo and arun acting like someone superglued them together

[grandmaster-anne]

20 April 2014 Princess Anne and Sir Timothy Laurence arriving at St George's Chapel for Easter service.

[short-wooloo]

[universallydelegated]

Another Sinclair doodle while I try my best to not hate my art YIPPEEE

[nerdiqueen]

today's tech's fine actually rant (not all of these are my observations, but I couldn't tell you where I got half of them)

[essektheylyss]

If anyone was genuinely curious why I ended up at "by the same logic that early c2 viewers used to argue Caleb was a werewolf, so is Essek," it was because I went to check if the etymology of Thalamus (in Occultus Thalamus) was different from its use in anatomy, and it is, in that the original Greek use is more akin to "inner chamber," which is similar but distinct in concept, particular when considering the Genesis Ward, from the anatomical usage, which is for the nerve center of the brain. So the Occultus Thalamus is either a central control for Aeor or some kind of hidden chamber or vault, which could feasibly hold anything.

The related terms included, in order: "thalame: 'den, lair'; tholos: 'vault'," and the combination of 'den' followed by 'tholos' made me wonder if there was actually an etymology for Thelyss, given a lot of other pointed origins. I don't necessarily think there is, but getting down to PIE with "*del" (variably written with the [th], though I couldn't find a ton of confirmation on it, but it is the origin of the word "tale" so it's somewhere in between) meaning, roughly, "to count, calculate, aim, reckon" and either "*lewk" meaning 'to shine' or "*wĺ̥kʷos" meaning 'wolf'. All of this is irrelevant because it's probably a coincidence because who the fuck besides me is going back to PIE for fantasy etymology, but it is fun as hell.

But most importantly I did somehow also manage to actually get the homework I was trying to finish done, which means I have virtually finished two of my three current courses, which means I will shortly be released from my torment (spring quarter) and get to unleash this absolute bullshit investigative energy on fic again instead of going down this line of absurd rabbit hole.

[smokestarrules]

“Suletta getting the Holder uniform back was antithetical to the show’s themes” but think about the context of the reunion scene for a second. The last time Miorine and Suletta saw each other, Suletta had been taking steps forward, declaring her intention to marry Miorine because she wanted to. Then Miorine had broken her heart.

But then there's this scene, and while it's true that the title of Holder shouldn't be determining who Miorine marries, I don't think that's the implication here. Instead, the fact that Suletta is again wearing it when Miorine opens the door means just this: I still choose you.

The thing about the Holder is that it doesn't matter anymore--it hasn't since Guel took it from Suletta--but what does matter is that Suletta still accepts the symbol for Miorine.

[iwonderwh0]

I like hostile interpretation for how it first of all straight away establishes them as equals and capable on their own, or in any case doesn't put any of them into more of a submissive position. Then, for how this dynamic of mutual hostility instantly eliminates the possibility of infantilising Connor or idealise Hank. And then, this makes the potential of them overcoming it into getting close a thousand times more satisfying! In this situation they know each other at their absolute worst, they are not oblivious about each other's faults nor they pretend to be – they're really honest, and even if this came from a place of wanting to hurt another in a way that actually hurts, it creates a weird situation where even as enemies they learn to understand each other quite intimately. To know when and where to strike. And if in process of it they actually became for each other that person who understands them the most, knows them better than anyone...well

[galaxywhump]

Starry-Eyed

A little something about one of my D&D characters, an owlin Circle of Stars druid named Gienah.

contents: character expecting to die, dehydration, amnesia.

~~~

He opened his eyes to the endless starry sky above him. There were sensations and stimuli - dull, pulsating pain in his head and back, gentle sloshing of water, a hard wooden surface beneath him - but he was too captivated by the sky to pay attention to any of them, his eyes following the stars, searching for paths between them to create constellations. He couldn’t help but smile, which then turned into almost tearing up from how overwhelmed he was by the beauty and grandness of the sky.

When he took a deep breath, the pain intensified, snapping him back to his senses and making him wince. Why was he in pain?

Where was he?

He sat up abruptly and immediately hissed when his head protested this sudden change in position. When his ears stopped ringing and his vision cleared, he looked around, and what he saw chilled him to the core.

He was in a small boat, alone, and all around him, as far as the eye could see, were the inky depths of the ocean.

There had to be something, though, right? Land or a ship, because he couldn’t have been in this boat for too long, considering he was still alive and felt… alright, aside from the pain. He must have ended up here somehow, but how?...

His head throbbed with agony again, but he was determined as he searched deep within his mind.

“Gienah!”

He flinched at the auditory memory, a word said in an authoritative tone that almost made it sound like he was going to be yelled at.

He? Yes, because the word was his name. Gienah. He was sure of that.

Other than that, though, there was nothing. He was trying to remember, but it felt like he was grasping at the thinnest threads that slipped out of his hands and disappeared, pages in a book that faded in front of his eyes, and there was nothing, nothing, nothing, he was lost and in pain and he was going to die. 

He looked around frantically, but there didn’t seem to be much in the boat, other than two oars. No food, no fresh water - and he did make sure, rummaging through the boat before having to accept that there really wasn’t anything that could help him survive. He had no way of getting out of here- No, he had wings. He was an…. owlin, that was the word. He spread his wings a bit just to remember the sensation, and grimaced when a spike of… something hit his mind. A bad memory, maybe? He’d take bad memories over no memories, but the spike passed, leaving behind a vaguely upsetting void. 

Regardless, he knew he didn’t have enough stamina to just fly forever, so leaving the boat when there was no land in sight would be an even more certain death sentence. He shuddered, imagining crashing into the sea, resigned and exhausted. No, he’d have to choose a direction and row, and hope he would come across some land he could fly to. And then… He didn’t know. He’d decide when he survived.

Dizziness overwhelmed him, so he lay back down, just for a moment, until he felt strong enough to start rowing. Was he even strong enough, though? It sure didn’t feel like it. 

No matter. He stared up at the night sky, at the moon and the stars, and he never wanted to go back to the horrifying reality of his current situation.

As he lay there, slipping into comforting mindlessness, he realized that one of his pockets felt heavier than the other. With a small spark of hope, he reached inside, and his fingers closed around a small object. When he held it up to examine it closely, illuminated by moonlight, he realized that it was some kind of whistle, made of gold-colored wood. He turned it this way and that, looking it over with narrowed eyes, but as much as he’d hoped that his seemingly only possession, barring the clothes on his back, would give him some answers, it ended up resulting in even more questions, especially when he realized that his beak didn’t even let him use it. Why would he have this? Was it really his? How did it end up with him if it wasn’t? He sighed and dropped the whistle back into his pocket, fixing his eyes on the sky again, only to have yet another realization.

He’d chalked the sensation up to hunger up until now, but he realized it was something different, a swirl of… energy inside him, and when he raised his hand, almost automatically, he remembered something, whispered a few words, and a few sparks appeared in his hand, only to fade away. Magic. It was magic.

His name was Gienah, he was an owlin, and he knew how to use magic. That was a start. What kind of magic was it, though? He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, tuning into the energy inside him, or… not really inside him, not to begin with, instead creeping closer from all around him, from the sea and the sky, from the fish and the seagulls. It came from nature, then. What was this called?

He knew the word, but couldn’t recall it, as if he’d hit a wall in his mind. Not like it mattered right now, anyway; his magic didn’t feel strong and focused enough to help him. He had to do his best on his own, then. He had to survive if he wanted to avoid dying out here and becoming food for the seagulls.

So he sat up, rolled his shoulders, picked up the oars and started rowing. He’d much rather do this during the day, but every second was precious in this race against time. Besides, he could focus on a specific star - the brightest one - and use it to stay on course. He could do this.

Just like he suspected, he wasn’t very strong, but determination pushed him forward. It didn’t matter if his arms felt like they were on fire, he had to push himself far beyond his limits if he wanted to survive, even when the pain was forcing tears out of his eyes. Only when he felt his muscles fully give out did he take a break, letting go of the oars to massage his sore arms and breathe deeply. Looking around, he still saw nothing but the open sea, but it was going to change. It had to.

Having to go back to rowing filled him with dread, his entire body screaming at him to save himself from the strain, but he had no choice. Although… He focused on his apparent magic again. Could he do anything to make this easier for himself, even though he wasn’t especially powerful? Drawing from nature… 

Frowning, he touched one of the oars. It was made of wood, not entirely smooth, though not rough enough for splinters, giving off a makeshift feel. A competent work from an amateur - and he could do something with it.

He grabbed both oars and closed his eyes. Just like with the sparks earlier, it was… an instinct, something that he had practiced so many times that even his mangled memory wasn’t an obstacle. He whispered a few words and tapped his fingers on the oars, and…

He opened his eyes slightly and gasped when he saw the oars glowing with thin veins of light that permeated the wood and climbed up. The oars felt… lighter, somehow, and when he put them in the water and pushed, there was less resistance than before. It worked. He could do this - this time the reassurance had more conviction behind it.

This continued into the next day, casting his spell, rowing, resting, searching for land or a ship, focusing only on the task at hand, because he knew that if he gave in to hopelessness, he would only doom himself. He could barely feel his arms, but he kept rowing, forcing himself into a murderous routine, tuning out everything else. His fingers were sore and stiff, and he felt like they were frozen solid every time he had to open his hands to let go of the oars. The only mercy was the weather, the sun peeking out from behind the clouds from time to time; he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to handle being constantly exposed to its scorching heat.

Night finally fell, and he took a moment to look up at the stars once again. There was something… soothing about them. They were constant, unchanging, always there, unswayed by what was going on in the mortal realm. Uncaring, maybe, and yet… calming in a way.

Slightly reinvigorated, he went back to rowing until he passed out from exhaustion.

When he woke up in the morning, his throat was bone-dry. He tried to clear it, but all it achieved was sending him into a coughing fit that only made matters worse. He was parched, and there was nothing he could do about it. Hunger was also making itself known, but it was a less pressing concern. Dehydration was going to kill him much faster than starvation.

It took all his willpower to fall back into the routine. Row, don’t stop rowing, ignore the pain, then the numbness, the hopelessness that squeezed his heart like a clawed hand, piercing it, tormenting it. Ignore the shallowness of his breath. Ignore the dark spots dancing before his eyes. Ignore the thirst, the thirst, the thirst. Ignore the fast approaching lonely death.

Then he started slipping. With what little strength he had almost completely gone, even supported by magic, he wasn’t even pushing at the oars hard enough for the boat to gain considerable speed, and the gentle waves, while more welcome than a storm, weren’t of much help. His hands were shaking, his shoulders were locked in agony. He let out a sob, then another, until he broke down fully, still rowing, still fighting, even though there was no point. Tears were clouding his vision until he could barely see anything, and maybe he was going in circles, there were no stars guiding him after all, it was so hopeless.

With a frustrated groan, he fell backwards, hitting the bottom of the boat hard, staring at the heavy, overwhelming clouds hanging over him, as if the sky was threatening to come down and crush him. At least it would be a quicker death.

He shuddered. Despite his hopelessness, he still… he didn’t want to give up. He could still try. At night, maybe, when he could use the stars to navigate. Right now he just needed to rest.

His sleep was fitful, he tossed and turned, unsure whether he was waking up from time to time or simply dreaming. His headache was killing him, his body felt heavy like lead, and his heart had sunk deep into the ocean.

When night came, he opened his eyes, but saw no stars. The night sky was obstructed by clouds.

Before he knew it, he was crying again, dryly, because he was too dehydrated for tears. He really was going to die here, barely remembering who he was and not remembering his life, what had led up to this, at all. Not knowing whether anyone would search for him, miss him, mourn him. Alone, heartbroken and scared, with nothing and no-one to comfort him in his final moments.

Exhausted, Gienah allowed himself to fall back asleep, not knowing if he would wake up again.

[nelkcats]

Rehabilitation Path

While researching about a villain's parentage as Oracle, Babs discovered that the Information about Amity Park is blocked (maybe is the GIW, maybe is Tucker or an aftermath of Technus shenanigans in the city).

She realizes that she can't investigate about this random place and get concerned, so she decides to investigate it in person. But since is just a reconnaissance mission to understand the technological block she didn't tell the bats, why would she?

When she arrives there, she saw all the things happening: the teen hero, ghosts invasion, government cover-up, etc.

But that's not the worst part, because she also saw that something was happening with the town hero: He was moving like he couldn't see halfway, stumbling, missing his aim, his coordination was obviously failing and the blind spot was so obvious to her!

So instead of telling Bruce or the League as she should, she decided to talk to him. The boy told her that he had a really bad accident and he still felt the aftermath (like her)

When Babs asked him if he had done rehab to recover and he shrugged saying that his powers had fixed it, she was horrified. It seemed that no one had taken the time to give him rehabilitation therapy, a few days in the hospital and he was considered cured!

The boy also admitted about losing sight in one of his eyes over time, but not doing anything because he felt ashamed about it. The boy thought that this disability made him less valuable in combat, that when he recognized it, he would have to stop being a hero! Babs couldn't help but get annoyed with whoever put such a stupid thought in the teenager's head.

So she made up her mind: She would teach that boy about the good path to recovery, and show him that an accident didn't have to ruin his life, she would teach him to to be proud of his newfound disability, because that didn't stop her from being a hero and it wouldn't stop him either.

[mental-about-you-too]

Crowley + bluffing (+ memory)

Source

A lot of people have written about the indications in S2 that Crowley was once a Very Powerful Angel (specifically, an Archangel). And yeah, some hints are pretty blatant (eg "Thrones, Dominions, or higher"), and there are some sound analyses out there--so it's very possible that he was.

But I don't think that's necessarily the case.

I think that, when it comes to his power (or his bargaining position more generally), there's always a decent chance that Crowley is--at least partially--bluffing.

Source

25 Lazarii

As @halemerry pointed out in this meta about colors, purple is not only the color of massive angelic power--it's also Crowley red + Aziraphale blue (this was a revelation to me).

Source

I think it's made pretty clear that the remarkable power of the 25-Lazarii miracle isn't (in itself) evidence that Crowley was once among "the mightiest of Archangels"--it means that together, Aziraphale and Crowley are as powerful as the mightiest of Archangels.

Source

So when Crowley claims he might have done the "miracle of enormous power":

Source

and Shax doesn't question him, I don't think it necessarily means he's Very Powerful. Maybe he is. Maybe she knows it. But I don't think she does, and I don't think we do either.

Who knows? He could be bluffing.

"I meet a lot of people."

I think something similar could be going on when it comes to Crowley's memory. Yes, memory is a theme in S2, and mention of Crowley's memory (or rather, lack thereof) is a recurring point, so it probably means something. (And the line "looking at where the furniture isn't" does sound like he might be familiar with Jim's experience of amnesia.)

But in the cases of Furfur and Saraqael: sure, maybe he doesn't remember them--or maybe he's just calling them forgettable to be annoying and obstructive.

Source

He doesn't feel like playing along with either of them. He doesn't want to encourage some sort of connection. He's not their friend. Sure--maybe he dismisses Saraqael with "I meet a lot of people" to cover up an actual lapse.

Source

Or maybe he's just being a bit of a bastard (affectionate) and trying to get on their nerves.

In other words: maybe he's bluffing.

And so maybe Crowley was an Archangel. Maybe his memory was erased, and he had to work at recovering it piecemeal. Or maybe he was somebody of respectable power but middling influence (eg a Throne or Seraph, as per this informative meta on angelic rank). Maybe he lost some memory due to trauma, and he puts on a flippant front to hide pain from those who might take it as weakness. Or maybe he remembers everything, and he just enjoys sticking it to power at every opportunity by being infuriating.

Personally, I like to think of Crowley and Aziraphale as institutionally insignificant beings who happen to have enough audacity and imagination (and capacity for Caring About Things) to make themselves everyone's problem.

I don't know, maybe I just like the way book!Crowley and Aziraphale seem to be in similarly-middling positions in their respective organizations, yet still decide to team up and try to avert the apocalypse. Maybe I'm hung up on the underdog narrative, and ignoring evidence. (And/)or, maybe the whole bluffing thing is all very obvious--after all: he's a demon. He lies.

Edit: After writing this, I found this meta by @avelera about the Doylist argument for Crowley being a high-ranking angel, and it's...honestly pretty convincing (I have Pratchettist preferences about Our Heroes' status, it seems). But who knows? Maybe Gaiman will subvert the pattern. Maybe he's bluffing too.