#but it's driving me up a wall in rebirth

[rocketbirdie]

tifa honey... you gotta bring it up with him please i'm begging you...

[adawong]

[sun-snatcher]

( credits to @perryabbott for this phenomenal gifset ! )

2/? | SEAWARDS, TO YOU. ; REPENTANT!AU

summ.  A continuation. You & Halbrand find common ground. Philosophies are debated. A bond is formed. or: A Smith and a Sculptor begin their friendship. pairing.  (Repentant!Mairon/Sauron) Halbrand / f!reader , ( established in #SEAWARDSTOYOU ) w.count.  4k a/n.  Important tags in first chapter ! Two artisans share their craft and debate their disciplines. Grumpy x sunshine trope coded in this one !

       WEARINESS IS NOT the word, he learns very quickly, when the hammer and tongs had been placed in his calloused hands at Númenor, and he’d been put to the test to earn his Guild crest and prove himself useful to the master blacksmith. 

(They’d tasked him to create the best blade he could, and the finest steel sword is what he’d forged for them. When they’d asked if he knew how to shape a sturdy anchor, he laughed and said, “How many would you like?”)

It is, for all intents and purposes, still a hammer and tongs; still a weighty familiarity where the memory of Aulë rests in one hand and the blackness of Morgoth in the other. But now all attributions coalesce and measure to some… distant nostalgia. 

Homesickness.

He wonders if a Maia could even be capable of such trivial things like a sickness. Wonders if maybe it’s borne from this mortal flesh he’d awoken in; if perhaps Melian had fretted too over this fatigued, adrift state of sense when she bound herself to her corporeality and the menial necessities that came with living in such a body.

Is this what it’s like to fall from grace?

He’d found himself in an endless loop of madness in trying to decipher his Judgement the day he first awoke: Why the Valar had allowed him— Sauron, the Abhorred, Gorthaur the Cruel, Shadow of Morgoth— a second chance; a rebirth. It doesn’t feel like mercy. Is this punishment? A test? Is he truly as free as they're making him believe?

Why, if anything, these hammer and tongs— his age-old solace— just feel like another shackle binding his wrists. 

It’s both too good to be true and not at all.

Perhaps this is the play. To have his uncertainty drive him into insanity. To be the architect of his own demise. Or maybe this is just another part of a grand design amongst the Ainur he isn’t privy to anymore— but surely not; Who would want to give a role of any significance to him? He is Sauron. The Great Deceiver. He cannot be trusted. 

By his very own hands, he had ensured that.

…Except you. Eärmaril. The one who’d offered him wine and proverbial bread and a new beginning. 

Foolish, he thinks, pursing his lips. But with whatever few days of time he chanced to spend with you sitting in that cell, there’d been a graceful naïveté to you he found (charming) himself envying. A mortal innocence. An excitable youth he’d long since grown out of. This seemingly bright wonder and an ever-light in your eyes he deemed frustratingly blinding— like the blaze of a sun, or the glare of a moonglade— that he surprisingly couldn’t help but be drawn into out of pure fascination.

Even moreso, now, since he’s discovered:

“You’re a craftsman?” says Halbrand, stunned. “You didn’t tell me.”

In the clear midday afternoon, you pause to look up from your potter’s wheel. 

He’s fascinated. It shows in the curious dart of his eyes. 

Earthenware line the front of your atelier, all in odd colours, shapes and sizes, still dewy from catching the remains of the late morning shower. They trail into your workshop; great pots and elaborate vases dotting the floor while the flatware stack neatly on shelves lining limestone walls. The ceramics are all set aside in a way one could see a careful path to your throwing wheel, where you’re nestled behind and idly washing the slip off your fingernails in a bucket of water.

“You don’t tell me a lot of things, either,” you snort, drying your hands on your apron. Your tousled hair is tied neatly away, and there’s a spot of clay marking the edge of your jaw. “Besides, is it so surprising I am?”

Halbrand had seen you at the docks, just this salty morning when he stood at the forge (that you’d spent hours cajoling the Master blacksmith into accepting him into the day prior); barefooted on the docks among the local sailors, casually dirtying your pretty alabaster skirts with wet sand and seawater to help tug the ropes of a wayward skiff, dainty sleeves rolled and rumpled up to your elbows as you moored it with the unwomanly ease of a seasoned sailor.

“How unladylike!” he’d overheard the chinwag of the traditional Númenorean mothers when she came upshore. “What a mess!”

(What a mess, indeed. But it explains plenty, and as a Smith, Mairon can understand it. An esoteric signature between all artisans is to be a mess; to rebel against the orthodox. It had been what set him apart from the other Maiar— And it had been precisely what led him into Morgoth’s hands.)

“No, I suppose not,” says Halbrand, sounding somewhat breathless. You stamp down the prickle of alarm when he picks up a piece to study it; the instinctual urge to warn him to be careful.

There is a thread of… something, after all, no matter how unconsciously thin it may be, between you two. You cannot call it trust— not yet, but you’re determined to get there— so perhaps understanding would do; And if it starts with something as small a step as trusting him not to mishandle your works, then you’ll chance it.

Craftsmanship appears to be the only bridge to a version of Halbrand you’ve not yet seen since you’ve met him, after all. You want to hold on to it. No, you want him to hold on to it, more like. To this lifeline; this rare flicker of radiant light in him.

“Have you ever tried pottery?” you ask, noticing the acuity of his appraising gaze.

For a moment, his gaze had fallen inwards, and he was not in the room with you when he spoke with a longing look. Sauron is far away, in the place where Aulë first taught Mairon all there is to know of the joys of creation. 

“I’ve tried my hand in plenty a craft before metalwork, believe it or not,” Halbrand says, and sets the plate back down with a clink. “Admittedly, clay is my weakest medium.”

“Oh?” you smile, suddenly curious, and Halbrand meets your inquisitive look once you’ve set your finished piece— a jug it looks to be— alongside the rest of the unfired clay prepared for the kilns.

“Clay is ever elusive,” says Halbrand, mildly as he can to avoid offense. “It is the inferior material to work with. The most fragile after being tempered.”

It had sounded almost recited, the way he said it, and so you frown, “Right. And who told you that?”

Morgoth. “…My old master.”

“Valar, then your old master must’ve been as good as…” you wave, face twisting in incredulity to find the words. “A netless net cast on shallow shores.”

There’s a pause, and you wonder if you’d crossed a line at the sudden seize of him— until he lets out a breath, akin to a wheeze, almost. 

It’s a small sound, but enough to catch you off-guard nonetheless. You've never heard him laugh before. 

“You disagree?” asks Halbrand, amusingly. 

“Not entirely.” You cock your head, sidling a hip at the table as you playfully stare him down. “It is elusive and fragile, yes. That it is an inferior material? No. Shaped correctly, pottery can endure centuries. It does not rust like steel, erode like stone, or decay like wood. It can outlast an age. Outlast even us.”

Us. He tarries on the word more longer than he should. He suddenly remembers he isn’t Mairon the Admirable— not just a craftsman speaking to another craftsman— but Sauron, hiding beneath the veneer that is Halbrand, a mortal man with a seemingly inevitable end.

He looks at the pot sitting underneath the table beside you. Bright green and lustrous, with elegant filigree of cresting waves and boats adorned with sails carrying the sun. Then he looks at the bucket by his feet, filled to the brim with broken shards of colourful ceramic, toeing it with his boot. 

“And yet,” is all he says.

You wrinkle your nose. “Those will be repurposed. That is its very beauty.”

“There is no strength in fragilities.”

You uncross your arms with a narrow look, as if he’s missed your point, and pick up a cup from the tray of bisqueware. Then, to his utter surprise— toss it casually aways from you. 

Reflex serves him well.

He catches it before it can shatter. “What—?!”

“The nature of the claypots strength relies solely on how one holds it,” you correct his previous statement. “And therefore, its value.”

Sauron looks at you then, and realises what it is you’re doing; what it is you’re asking of him. 

The thought should not have been that frightening, frankly— but there lingers still an ache in his nape and the unseen scars of a thousand daggers across his chest. There sears still a phantom hole in his beating heart, however much he decides to stubbornly ignore it.

“Trust,” he states, finally. The word sounds bitter to hear coming from him as he grips the delicate cup in his hand. “You know, I can very well crush this, Eärmaril.” 

“Yes. You could.” That is to say: Exactly my point!

He huffs out his nose, bristling. Halbrand moves over to return the cup in your palms. 

“You don’t know what you’re asking of me.”

There’s the Judgement of Eru and Manwë echoing like a chorus in his head. There’s Mairon long gone, and Sauron that remains. The Great Deceiver. The one who cannot be trusted, because he had made it so with his bare hands.

“I am asking a man—”

“I am not—” A man, Sauron very nearly overrides. “—who you think I am.”

“What about who you can be, then?” You catch his wrist just before he can step back to retreat, and he can feel the ignition of a flame running through his arm like a frisson. “Isn’t that what this all is?”

“Halbrand, you told me you’ve done evil; irrevocable, irredeemable sin. Yes, so what shall you do now, then? This repentance of yours— to whom are you atoning for? The dead? The Valar? They are not here. What can they do with it? It is your life, after all, and your freedom.”

You let him go. Sauron stays rooted, prickled by how this feels alot like one of his unspoken, one-sided conversations he’d have with Uinen’s statue back at the cells.

“I will carry this regret with me forever.” His voice is heavy with a fell conviction. “It is not something your seas can absolve me of, or whatever other metaphor it is your people like to believe in.”

You hum at that. A reluctant assent of agreement. It’s infuriatingly patient. (This is an unfamiliar battleground. He’d expected you to be put off by him; to be angry— instead he’s been unsteadied with startling kindness.)

“Well, I am not asking you to forget, Halbrand. I am asking you to be free of it,” you roll your eyes, voice light and matter-of-fact. “You can choose to spend it wallowing in misery; shackle yourself to your past like a victim of your own villainy; But that would be the true evil— a disservice to those you’ve so claimed have suffered under your deeds. The real victims.”

Another voice interrupts the both of you. Apologies! says the young messenger, shifting timidly at the foot of your atelier with a scroll in hand, It is urgent. 

You wave in assent, then look back to Halbrand.

“You pace so long in your cage you’ve conditioned yourself to its unseen shadows,” you muse, and Sauron can hear your steady voice, both as delicate and as mighty as freshly-fired clay. “Remember this: What you do with the second chance the seas have granted you is what will define your atonement— nothing more, nothing less. Do not waste it on being a jailbird.”

And then—

And then.

You’re off, brushing past him like the sweetness of a saltbreeze, leaving him standing in your wake and staring at the cup you’ve left purposely behind.

It’s set precariously close to the edge of the table.

Open invitation.

(Mairon’s finger twitches in instinct.) 

He looks at the cup, and thinks, then looks and thinks again— only to conclude he couldn’t think at all, that you make it irritatingly impossible to do so. His mind is too far fixed on the fond smile of your face and your sunburst laugh carrying up the docks; the striking touch of your hand when you’d grabbed his wrist and the sincerity in your eyes.

No. He shan’t take your bait.

He ought not to entertain this little exercise of yours— this petty endeavour. Ought not to give in to this fairytale you fancy yourself a saviour in. 

He shouldn’t.

He’ll leave everything untouched as you left it.

…The cup is pushed noticeably further— safer— into the table, pristine despite the telling thumbprint of soot, by evening when you return.

You smile.

He had been unprepared for how aimless this would all feel, even in the dusty comforts of a forge and the timely strike he makes on every metal he wills to bend.

What could a great, primordial Being in the material shell of a common, mortal man do? For as much as Mairon now sought peace, he had no idea what to do with it. Where to go from here— much less begin. 

“Lost the way to your rookery, fair lady?” says Halbrand, not blinking an eye from his worktable. 

Even between the thick silt and smoke of the blazing forge, your nebulous presence sticks out in the air like a phantom itch he couldn’t ignore. 

“Do all Southlanders bite the hand that feeds them?” 

Puzzled, he pauses mid-polish of a blade, looking over his shoulder to see you’ve set a lidded claypot of what he assumes to be dinner, to heat on stray coals of the hearth.

“Wolves do,” he muses warningly, going back to turning his sword in his hands to scrutinise it for any flaws. “They tend to have an appetite for harmless little seabirds who don’t know any better than to fly too close to the snap of jaws.”

You laugh.

It feels like a tender caress.

Halbrand fails to resist the urge to turn to the honey-sweet sound.

“I suppose a hound was, indeed, how you looked like,” you tease, feigning distant recollection. “Locked in a cage, backed in a corner…”

He raises his brows. “I remember being right at the bars of my cell.”

“When we were at the Queen’s court,” you correct, remembering the way he seemed to shrink before you when the guards had unshackled him. “I didn’t mean the prison. Though— ah, pass me the tongs, would you?— you did look quite like a wet dog in there, too. ”

The casual request knocks him from getting scathed at the passing insult. He passes you the tongs, and watches as you use it to lift the lid of the claypot and examine the braised Snapper between the steam, before setting everything back down, back wholly turned against him.

Something about how easy you move around him, how easy it is to turn your back towards him so calmly— flickers a spark of annoyance in him. It isn’t so much that he felt less of a powerful being around your aloof-self— he still is a Maia, after all, even if constrained in certain aspects; and his entire plan is to appear mortal, anyway— but moreso in that you are vexingly… trusting? Foolish? 

“Shall I toss the spoon?” you heartily jest. “I imagine Great Halbrand the Wolf hardly needs one—”

“I’ve had time to think,” he interrupts rudely, finally putting aside his sword to cross his arms accusingly. “That if it’s not 'grand adventure and finer things' you seek, seabird, that it must then be something much more intangible. Personal.”

“So tell me, what do you expect this kindness will bring you? Is this your version of penance? Are you— as you’ve so eloquently described it— defining your atonement?” He dips his head to meet your gaze from where he’s leaning against an anvil, and the firelight paints him razor-sharp. “You pace a cage of your own, too, Eärmaril. I can see it.”

A beat. If you had been rattled, you didn’t show.

You look up at him, and your face is impassive. 

Sauron decides, then and there, that he hates it. He’s decided a lot about you, lately; That he detested your courage, your blind faith, your pestering kindness, and your utter unpredictability— though none so much as the look on your face here and now: startlingly dim and devoid of your usual sword-bright light. 

He has half the mind to rescind his words.

“I’m glad to see you’re not your old Master, Halbrand,” you comment, and mistake the flinch he’d made for a timely shift in his weight. “Who was as pitifully brittle as a sand dollar and outwitted by something as simple as clay.”

“Yes, I pace a cage. But it is not entirely of my making,” you allow, and leave out: Not like yours. 

Unlike him, your cage is being unhistoried and irreconcilable, found as a waif with no one but a white seabird standing guard by moon-water and jagged black rocks. Your cage is a sandbar between diaspora and anemoia, appearing and disappearing now and then like the ebb and flow of tides.

“So no, it is not an atonement, rather a purpose I have given myself. Something you ought to do, really, lest you become aimless.” 

Too often do mortal men reduce regrets into nothing more than abstract performance; do not tread the erroneous path of causeless martyrdom— is probably the more appropriate way to warn him, but you decide against that. 

“Is that what I am to you, then?” he finds himself snapping, the same tone he’d used on Galadriel when they’d been stranded at sea on that raft. “A project to bide your time with? A means to an end?” 

“No!” you bite, aghast and suddenly severe. That jars him. He very nearly averts his gaze when you level him with a stricken look. “You’re my—” 

—Friend, you mean to say, just before you felt dwarfed by the admission. I hoped for us to be friends.

You let it hang tenuously in the air instead. It’s the first he’d ever seen you look so small.

“You have far too much faith in the hands of others,” Sauron begins, calmer now. He remembers the light weight of a white cup in his grasp, the thin daintiness of its handle. “Trust broken is far worse than trust never first given.”

(He’s far away again, with a carafe in his hands, by a shape upon a dark and nameless peak.)

“Yes,” you recognise. “Though one would lead a terribly lonely life without taking that risk.”

“But I will leave you be, Halbrand, if you so desire. You need only to tell me,” you say, solemn and abrupt. “I can go back. I can leave you; to your hammer and your tongs and your metal; like the lone wolf you fancy yourself to be.”

Your expression is solid— but not cruel. 

He doesn’t think you’re capable of that, now that he thinks about it. 

You’re not like Sauron, not like him.

He is a Smith, after all; And Smiths value strength and resilience above mercy and benevolence. Every hammer strike must be measured and every blade sharpened to its finest point. Mairon is born with the endogenous instinct to craft nothing short of mastered perfection and intention; and more often than not that calls for an unyielding, iron fist— to control instead of cradle as you do.

(The claypot is spared the dilemma of the steel sword; that is, preservation of peace through necessary violence.)

It’s no wonder Morgoth was quick to corrupt him into Sauron; Into a Being with too cruel a grip, too demanding a voice, too pragmatic a soul and too utilitarian a heart. 

And yet—

“…No,” he remarks quietly, suddenly inconceivably panicked at the very thought of you (and your light) turning away from him. 

But his answer had made him feel too vulnerable— too exposed, and so he says, “My days of commanding people are over.” And is quick to deflect before you could question him, by going: “Regardless, I hardly believe it’d take that little to stop a pesky seagull.”

“Seagull?” you hiss, diverted by the non-sequitur. “What happened to seabird?”

“I see no difference.” 

You scoff, but without heat. It relieves him more than he should’ve allowed it. “Then you’re a—! How does the saying go? An albatross around one’s neck. Except you’re the albatross, and you’re around your own neck.”

You childishly swat at the space between you, and with it went the uneasy tension in the air as a gust blew in. It had simmered the furnace, and he caught the scent of you between the coals and the dish you’ve slid off it, and he found you smelled like your earthen clay and the salt of the seas.

You smell like— not life, per se, but the very act of living.

“I was like you, once upon a time,” Sauron blurts. “Young and unbearably credulous.”

“You mean young and at peace.”

An indefinable muscle tics in his jaw. “Peaceful, but not as ignorant.”

“You’re just cynical.”

“I’m a realist!” Mairon states, sounding offended. 

“Pessimist.”

“Agree to disagree, then,” Halbrand finally sighs, rolling his eyes as he uncrosses his arms after a dismissive wave, feigning surrender. 

Your eyes reflexively travel up the rugged curl of them, before settling on his face. You’re surprised to see there’s a ghost of a smile across it— As if he’d enjoyed the mindless banter.

“Very well.” You offer a friendly shake to end the mock-parley, only to catch him by surprise when you playfully tug him a step forward after he meets it. 

“What?” blinks Halbrand, after a quiet moment.

“You look different in the forge,” you say fondly, looking up at his towering figure, “Less a jailbird, more a… More at home, maybe. Walls down.”

There’s green in his eyes— Viridian. Verdigris. Otherworldly, almost. You never quite noticed it until now, this up and close to him. It’s beautiful. (He’s beautiful.)

A powdery streak of black soot marks the smooth of your skin now. It feels less like a dirty stain, and more like a sacred covenant of sorts— as if both of you have piously hallowed into your bones the dawning of something he couldn't quite yet fathom; as if an uncrossable threshold has miraculously been crossed, or an act set in sacrosanct motion, and neither of you could ever turn back from here.

It feels like a bind.

“Walls down…” Halbrand repeats, voice a low rasp that sends a shiver through you. His thumb slides tentatively across your forearm as he hums. “Must I put them up, Eärmaril?”

Your voice is endearingly light. 

“Not around me. Didn’t you call me a harmless little seabird?”

Then you’re laughing. Soft, susurrus, dulcet; Fair as the sea and sun—

And a terrible, fleeting catharsis blooms in Mairon as he realises: it’s a sound he doesn’t mind drowning in.

Footnotes in AO3!

[hannie-dul-set]

sunwater [teaser].

SYNOPSIS. this is how you get a merman boyfriend.

PAIRING. park sunghoon x female! reader. GENRE. merman! sunghoon, artist! reader, slight college! au, strangers to lovers, romance, modern fantasy, humor, suggestive. WARNINGS. swearning, drowning, dirty/inappropriate jokes, mentions of sex, things might get a lil spicy but No Explicit Smut, mermaid politics, reader says and does a lot of questionable shit (might add more as i progress!) WORD COUNT. full fic: est. 20k more or less. teaser: 1.3k RELEASE DATE. late july to early august.

NOTE. finally thought of a title last night and immediately made the header so i can post the teaser HAUHASDH. stemmed from a convo with a friend of mine (i quote "u reject every man woman person that tries to date u. little do they know, ur type isn't human 🤩").

anyway, send me an ask/dm to be added to the taglist! preview under the cut.

GANGNEUNG-SI, GANGWON-DO. The drive to the east coast is always nostalgic, like fragments of previous summers are powdered into the air and with every inhale of the breeze outside the car window fills you with the past— scraped knees from the rocky beachside, saltwater daydreams under bunny-shaped clouds, and the smell of paint and the sea melting together in early morning dews. It takes a little over an hour for the cab to roll up to your summer neighborhood. It takes twenty minutes of walking to get to your family’s vacation house situated right beside the sea.

“Welcome home.”

Your words echo in the empty living room and your own voice greets you with remembrance. A smile crawls onto your lips. Eggshell walls, sandy brown wooden panels, your favorite blue sofa matching the stripes on the rug underneath it, and the sheer cream curtains painted with the orange spills of the sunset through wall to ceiling windows— it’s a still life painting of last year’s summer. Prior to that, you still had plants around, but they kept dying, getting replaced and dying again until your neglectful guilt finally hit you. Throughout highschool, your family diligently spent time here every December and July. Now, it’s just you every summer and the caretaker that comes by every few months.

“I should call mom after dinner,” you hum, washing the dishes you found in the cupboards. Your first night here always ends early. By sunfall, you have a quick meal, wash up, tuck yourself into bed upstairs and allow yourself to be lulled to sleep by the sloshing waves of the nighttime sea. 

Four in the morning is when you start to feel alive.

The first thing you do upon waking up, pitch black sky with the sun still hiding behind the oceanline, you grab one of the bags you left on your living room sofa, slinging it over your shoulder before picking up a folded up easel leaned against the wall and two of the blank canvas panels stacked beside it. Your body moves mechanically, practiced and familiar movements— sliding the glass door open to the backyard and closing, feeling the sand wither underneath your bare soles until soft grains blend into jagged stone as you climb up the natural staircase of rocks, leading up to a solid flat plateau.

Is it safe to be painting on top of a cliff when you’ve just woken up? No. Have you been doing this every day since you were fourteen every summer you spend at your vacation home? Yes. 

When the sun starts to rise, you become invigorated with life that it almost feels like rebirth.

You haven’t fallen to your death yet, and you don’t have any plans to slip and succumb to its cold hands any time soon. Not until you manage to perfectly capture the image before your eyes at this very moment; neither your memories nor your imperfect renditions can compare to the vibrancy of the orange stained waves, the clarity white seafoam kissing its surface, and the beauty of flaming disk peeking from the firmament where the sky meets the sea in all its ephemeral glory.

It’s five-thirty when the sun fully emerges from the water. Your legs give in, and you fall onto the rocky ground with a sigh. All you could finish is the underpaint today. You’ll continue working tomorrow. 

Whenever someone asks you— why the fuck are you doing this? you never have a satisfying answer. It’s an exercise, it’s a routine; it’s the only time when I feel like I’m painting something worthwhile. You have countless pieces in galleries and exhibits, meaningless works with the highest praises from your professors, but they’re nothing worth the buzz of your fingertips whenever you chase the sunrise with your own paint-stained hands until it inevitably, ritualistically flies beyond your devoted reach.

The strain in your leg muscles takes forever to recover. You should remember to bring a stool tomorrow because although you don’t feel anything besides adrenaline whenever you attack the canvas with your brush, the aftertaste can be a little brutal. 

“Can’t you stay a little longer tomorrow?” you mumble to the orange tinted sky as you lay on the uneven ground, arms and legs spread out in vulnerability. When it doesn’t respond, you groan and pull yourself up. You could leave your painting materials here, but the probability of them getting thrown into the ocean by the wind is too high for your peace of mind.

As you collect your paint brushes and gather your extra paint tubes, your eyes keep getting pulled by the ocean’s songs. The scene before you has been imprinted in your retinas since you were seven. So when something appears amiss or changes, you can pick it apart immediately. A shift in the tides. A crack in the rock formation. Even a floating piece of driftwood from afar can’t slip away from your attention.

So when you find something— rather, someone emerging from the warm blue near the sprouting rocks, you drop your things and pace quickly to the edge to get a better look.

This is odd. This entire plot of land is private property, and it’s the only way to get into the water besides the island across it, which is still at least twenty miles away. Your eyebrows furrow, wondering how they got here, but when you get to the edge of the cliff, the rough terrain biting into your feet, your concerns are suddenly thrown into the water underneath you.

You can see the intruder’s face clearly now. Whoever he is, he’s breathtaking.

He’s gotten closer to the shore, resting his arms on the inky rock, half submerged into blue depths. The saltwater beads glisten like jewels on his porcelain skin, splashing sunlight into the water when he throws his head back before letting the ocean consume him once more. There’s a flicker of gold that splashes above the surface in a steady rhythmic wave, slowly moving further away.

You have found your new ocean sunrise. You don’t intend on letting him get away.

Splash!

Suddenly, all the warmth from your skin is stripped away as your body sinks into the sea, engulfed by the thick raptures of its waves. Though having been enamored by it for the better part of your life, you have never stepped into the ocean’s embrace— never dared to corrupt its ethereal beauty with your feeble humanity— that is, until now. You slowly feel heavier, and each second hurts more than the last, like the sun itself has entered your lungs and is burning you from the inside. Maybe you should have learned how to swim. Maybe you shouldn’t have jumped off the cliff in the rushing hopes of catching a fleeting stranger’s attention.

No one should underestimate the lengths an artist would go for their art. Just when your consciousness starts to slip, you see a spark in the dark water, slowly approaching before your eyelids flutter to a close. You can hear nothing. You feel nothing but the cold, until all of the sudden you’re gasping, coughing out water from your lungs and the jagged rock you’re laying on sinks its teeth into your wet palms.

There’s one person who could have saved you. You can’t believe your deranged plan worked.

You open your eyes and look above, your still beating heart burning into a frenzy and instead of the sunrise sky, your gaze meets a pair of stygian gemstones muddled with concern. A few droplets of water from his damp hair fall onto your cheeks. 

“Are you okay?”

Burnt stars form a constellation on his face. His lips are full and painted by coral hues. 

“I want to burn you in my memory.”

He’s even more breathtaking up close, it’s almost impossible to believe. Your gaze draws down, noticing how you’re caged between his arms, noticing the patchy waist bag loosely hanging on his bare hips over a makeshift skirt of fabric, noticing the iridescent gold flakes blending into his skin, shimmering under the sunlight from where his lower half should be.

You flit your eyes back up. His are now widened in panic.

Splash!

sunwater. © hannie-dul-set, 2023.

[notstilinski]

Funny Story Starters !

Taken from the 2024 novel by Emily Henry, Funny Story! Some of these have already been edited. You can change them however you see fit! Some light spoilers for the novel may be present! 

“I fell in love with (Name) the moment I looked up from their hat.”

“Did I kill a bicyclist?”

“Could you turn it down? All the plates are rattling in their cabinets and (neighbor)’s trying to bust down the living room wall.”

“I stick my head out of the window when I smoke.”

“I let (Name) pay for literally everything. He makes a shit-ton more than me.”

“Of course that fucking meant for this to happen, (Name)! They had the last twenty-five years to tell you that they were in love with you and chose last night!”

“You brought me here! I left my friends. My apartment. My job. My entire life."

“Sometimes I wish I held on to a little bit more.”

“You look dead.”

“It’s ridiculous. It’s unbelievably fucked.”

“No. I get it. You didn’t want to be alone with it.”

“You thought I took you to a fetish bar?”

“Of course I don’t hate you. You’re unhateable. Maybe that makes me distrust you a little bit.”

“That is so depressingly cynical.”

“A shared cuckholding is the most fertile ground from which love could ever spring.”

“Are we evil or just immature?”

“(Name) and I have been taking bets on whether you’re in the FBI.”

“How many Crocs does this man have?”

“What if—and stay with me here—you just, like, tell me something about yourself?”

“Well, of having my heart shattered in the single most humiliating way imaginable can be of service to anyone, I’ll take it.”

“Such an air of disappointment. Every time you say my name.”

“They told you to trust them, and that’s what you did. That’s what you’re supposed to be able to do with people you love. They just don’t always live up to it.”

“I like most people. Is that so bad?”

“I’m not doing acid with you, (Name).”

“They all thought I was hot. Women of a certain age love me.”

“You are either the friendliest person on the planet or a world class serial killer.”

“Anything you need a helmet to do, you probably simply shouldn’t do.”

“If you’re trying to emulate (Name), I wish you the best of luck. No one can repress negative emotions like them. They’ve had too much practice.”

“I’d assumed the sunny disposition came naturally.”

“At five in the morning? I’d rather eat aluminum foil.”

“I’ve loved boyfriends less than I love this place!”

“It’d just be nice to earn my own glow sticks every once in awhile.”

“I think (Name) could be alone in a room with a paper bag and there’d still be a vibe.”

“Of course I’m right. I’m wise.”

“I want to undress you. And taste you. I want to hear you come again, and feel it too.”

“Sorry I wasn’t perfect, but you’ll understand when you’re a parent someday. You can’t do every right, and your kids will hate you for it.” 

“So they left you guys to deal with all that on your own, and you think you’re the bad guy for finding a way to survive?”

“Sometimes you make it sound like I’m a snake-oil salesman.”

“I was a little nerd, you can say it.”

“It feels like rebirth!”

“(Name) would you please do me the honor of sleeping in my bed?”

“I’m sorry. I should have waited to tell you.”

“I already told you. I didn’t do it to be nice.”

“A part of me is just waiting for the moment you see whatever it is that drives people away. And I don’t want that. I don’t want you to stop wanting me around. I think it might break my heart to be someone you don’t like.”

“I don’t want to treat you like that. I just… It’s hard to take any of this seriously. It’s hard to trust what you say now, after all the lying.”

“I told you as soon as anything happened with (Name). I know I acted like scum, but I never lied.”

“We can get our life back. It’s not too late.”

“No? How is that a response to what I just said? I just told you I love you, (Name).”

“I’m a cynic. And a cynic is a romantic who’s too scared to hope.”

“It’s not poisoned, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“I’m exactly the kind of person they can’t handle being with, and they’re the kind who could destroy me.”

“What in Satan’s ballsack?”

“This must be what it’s like to be a proud mother.”

“I don’t want you to go but I want you to be happy.”

“I’ll fucking end you if you don’t leave!”

“They can’t see themselves clearly. They made them feel like all they ever do is let people down.”

“Here I am, keeping all my problems secret so they won’t rush in and fix them, and they tell me they’re scared they’re childhood broke them.”

“Suddenly it seemed selfish of me. to love you.”

“Not the CrossFit part, I’m incredibly lazy.”

“I honestly can’t totally figure out why someone as good as you would love me, when I can be kind of a pessimistic asshole.”

“But I do feel like the luckiest person in the world, to be who you want. Because I want you too. I love you too.”

“I can’t have your mom falling in love with me.”

“Flags so red, they veer toward maroon.”

[zahri-melitor]

For the ask game, 4 and 24 for Barbara Gordon

4. How many people I ship them with

Well there's Dick/Babs. Dick and Barbara are probably my favourite canon couple in DC, for the way they balance and complement each other. And as much as they push at each other at times, they both enjoy being challenged by the other, and they've grown further together over time. It's how Dick always looks for Babs' hand at the end of the world. It's I don't like to be pushed and if you jump I'm there to catch you. (It's the fear of being pushed and the fear of missing the catch). It's the way neither of them are ever willing to name what's between them because they're both too afraid of if they're accidentally hurt by the other. It's the way Dick centres and calms himself by talking to Babs and he looks at her like she's a sunrise. It's how Dick can be a brake on Babs' obsessions and get her to relax. It's how lost they both become when the other is hurt or gone. It's how they can lounge around in a honeymoon suite discussing what they'd want in a marriage and kids without calling it a relationship. I adore them.

There's Dinah/Babs, because if there is one person Babs wants to have at the other end of a commline, following her orders? It's Dinah. And from experience at this point she trusts that when Dinah goes off script it's for a reason (even as it drives her wild). It's the way Babs orders Dinah around and Dinah enjoys it. It's the way they're so emotionally wrapped up in each other. It's Babs' tantrum over Dinah getting married and moving; it's the way she welcomed her back after Dinah broke up with Ollie. It's how Dinah was ready to fight Amazons and gods to save Barbara and hide what she was doing from Babs if it would save her life. It's the fact that working for Babs talked Dinah down from running into dangerous situations without backup when Ollie died. I love them so much and I delight in every time they're on page together, being thick as thieves.

There's Ted/Babs, which largely amuses me because they're both so very into the other's mind and programming/engineering skills, while also immediately concluding they're better off friends. They have a crush on each other's brain and I think that's incredibly cute.

And there's Babs/Jason Bard, which I am quietly fond of because it started out as a default relationship in pre-Crisis, turned them into interesting exes in preboot, flipped their relationship into something horrifically unnecessary in n52, and tried to repair it to a point where they could mend fences in Rebirth. I don't think Babs and Jason make a particularly good couple. I do love them as exes however, and it was actually my favourite stage when they were both physically disabled investigators ignoring people telling them they couldn't do their jobs.

24. What do you think is a secret they have that they never told anyone?

Amy Beddoes trying to shoot Clifford Carmichael, come on down.

I am certain Babs has never mentioned this moment to anyone else. The only person aware of what she got up to in that moment was Amanda Waller, and the Wall has never held it over her head.

Otherwise: Barbara has indeed run a DNA test on herself to establish what her biological parentage is. She's too much of a control freak to not have. She's seen the results, swore to herself that she would not let them affect her relationship with Jim, and continues to treat Jim like the father he's been to her since the day she came home with him. (She's still quietly cut up that she had to check) (No I don't know what the results said. I don't think it really matters)

[pretty-weird-ideas]

Fans seeing Remakes as a linear art where all changes come from going down a checklist where every plot point is a simple "yes" or "no" box is going to be the death of me. When you frame a narrative that's intentionally made to remix and fuck with the original narrative concepts and themes to say something DIFFERENT or expand on the themes as "Kept this element from the OG" vs "Removed" you typically miss out on what the story is even trying to say. You see a lot of "what they kept/cut" vs "WHY they kept/cut it". The writers/producers could literally look the audience in the face and say "This is the theme, it's not the same theme as the original but this is why we rewrote the narrative." and people would intentionally ignore what the current narrative is trying to say to replace it with the narrative of the original. Even if the two themes contradict or actively critique each other/are in conversation.

In the case of IWTV, we got an amazing story about how race connects to power imbalance and the cycle of abuse that WASN'T present in the original. To take that away from the narrative is to misunderstand WHY it exists.

To remove the Fear of the Future and Death from FF7 Remake/Rebirth is to lose a fundamental part of the narrative.

Consume media in the moment, and understand themes from both past AND present. Getting told that a story that is explicitly about a major concept is secretly about [something that isn't even present in the current adaptation] is driving me up the wall.

The constant need to disrespect emergent themes and narratives as falsehoods and abnormal structures that don't deserve analysis or critical thought floor me. The writers of adaptations and remakes are not absentminded when writing, they are not despots and lazy artists. They write just as much as the original writers, if not more. It is so bizarre seeing a narrative that turns the source material into an inside-out art piece get watered down into a list of either "fanservice" or "accidents". Any change is indulgent and useless, anything you dislike is a mistake or pandering, and so on and so forth. Because there's just no way the writers have anything to say of value, that would simply be ridiculous! /s

[m--rtyr]

hopping onto anon (im shy lol) to give my ideas for shad followers: these people fought alongside shad and truly believed in his divinity; so when shad was thrown into the nether like a sopping wet webkinz, these humans were banished or followed shad to the nether. these humans ended up establishing a unique society who lived off of the nether and had loyalty to shad, now im realizing MCD lacked any worldbuilding on shad and it drives me the wall 😭😭😭

God the lack of any Shad lore makes me so mad. Especially since the lore we do get is either ignored or contradicts itself.

(Quick Note; I use the terms abyss and nether interchangeably as they’re just different ways to refer to the same place based off whether we are using OG or rebirth lore)

But I love that idea, just a little swarm of humans trying to survive in the abyss/nether and worship their god. I’d imagine that they were slightly more advanced in some places than most humans, as the time difference between the nether and the overworld is like… 14x I think? Like for every day in the overworld it’s two weeks in the abyss. So they’re a slight more knowledgeable about things they do have access to, like magic and the human body.

But also by open portals and realm barriers, I feel like they’d build temples dedicated to him, as they wouldn’t have the sole objective of murder that SKs do and they want to appreciate their god appropriately. They try not to spend too long outside of the Nether though, and have specific priests and priestesses that are assigned to the outerworld temples to keep them safe.

There are messengers who are allowed free travel between the temples and the nether and it’s a very highly esteemed job because of the dangers of it. Messengers typically don’t have families because being out in the overworld takes too much time away.

[silver-wield]

Final Fantasy VII Rebirth Review Chapter 3

Okay, this collection of posts will be filled with spoilers, including clips and screenshots, so if you don't wanna see things, then don't look. Some of the things I'm gonna highlight will include references to Remake and other sources to link with the overarching plot. This is a straight path playthrough with no sidequests or extra content.

And here we go!

Chapter 3 covers the mythril mine to Junon.

Btw it's been 3 days since they left Midgar, which is on track for Aerith's death within 14 days. The GS date happens 3 days before she dies. Yes, I spent last night working that out because it was bugging me 🤣

After our encounter with the midgarsomer, we head into the mine following the black robes.

Cloud, Tifa and Barret have a moment of banter, that's made awkward AF by Aerith bringing up Cloud's hand massage in wall market. Idky she thinks that's something Cloud wants Tifa to know, but it comes across bitchy like she wants to drive a wedge between them.

Cloud shakes it off and we enter the mine. As we head deeper into the mine we hear a lil lore and some character background from Barret.

And then we hit a tiny snag as some of the robes fall off the path. Tifa's concerned because she's a good person and worries about everyone, but we see Cloud dismiss them. Deviating from the path isn't something he feels compelled to do even if Tifa asks because he's under Sephiroth's influence and the urge to keep going takes priority.

Barret heads off to look after the black robes which eases Tifa's concerns and we're stuck with a split party for the rest of this section.

I previously suggested this would happen on the journey and that we'd be locked in with certain party members for different areas. This not only gives us different battle combos and forces us to use characters we don't like, but it shows different dynamics and how the characters relationships develop when certain buffers aren't around.

So we're stuck with Aerith along for the ride for this part. Tbh I didn't put any materia on her, didn't do her synergies and didn't upgrade her folios at all and still beat the game with just Cloud at the end, so I pretty much ignored her through this part and every other.

Anyway, we sneak up on Rude having a little convo with Elena. The devs explained they had to change a few things with the Turks because the JP va for Reno passed away and they were using what little recorded lines they had and repurposed old ones so he could be part of Rebirth. This cut back on Reno's appearances, but they said he'll return properly in part three after they cast a new va.

Tbh I didn't mind Elena. She's 18, so ofc she's gonna be annoying. The battle with her and Rude was pretty fun.

After we kick their asses, Tseng pops up for a word, the same as OG, then drops everyone down a mine shaft.

The party splits again and this time we're onto Barret's gameplay. It's the same as Remake with him shooting everything. It was fine. I wouldn't say it was my least favourite gameplay section but it was average.

Red reiterates the reason they're chasing the black robes, so the main plot reminders are pretty heavy so far. We see Barret worrying about Cloud, and once they reunite later it's out of the mine and onto Junon.

Honestly, this section felt like a filler chapter and plays like one too. It's fine and has some good moments, but it's not winning any prizes.

[insertcoolusernamehereee]

This is gonna be pretty controversial, but like, my least favorite fannon characterization of DC characters is Hal Jordan. YUP, i ignored all the batfamily members, who i mostly read about, and jump right up to GREEN LANTERN. let me explain why-

In cannon, even Guy Gardner points out in Green Lantern: Rebirth, that the reason Batman hates Hal so much is because Hal is one of the only Justice League member who doesn't take Batman seriously. He isn't scared of Batman, and fear is something Batman relies heavily on.

quote- Hal Jordan is the Man Without Fear, and what is the Batman when you're not afraid of him? Just a man

that quote i put above is not the exact quote here, but i know it gets said, i just can't find that exact page- somebody PLZ link it in the Comments/Reblogs if u find it

And that's a line i actually really love for Hal.

BUT IN FANNON, HAL AND ALL THE OTHER JL ARE SO WEAK AND CLUELESS AND STUPID, it drives me up the wall. Batman and his kids are the only competent superheroes/vigilantes and i hate it.

especially when its about Superman, Green Lantern and Green Arrow. Because, while I love batman as much as the next person, I love these characters toooo. (Especially Batman's relationship with them)

In fannon, they make Batman bully Hal into fear, make him incredibly stupid, and BABYSIT THE BATKIDS, AND HE GETS FOOLED DURING THAT AS WELL.

basically, Hal Jordan deserves better. Do better @fanfiction

So, if anyone has fanfictions where Superman, Green Arrow or Green Lantern are treated with the respect they deserve and maybe interacting with the one of the Bats, make sure to link in Comments/Reblogs

read the tags, they're kind of important :3

[fruitsofhell]

FFVIIRebirth Nibelhiem is such a funny fucking case study for ME in what happens when a more vaguely presented piece of media ive obsessed over the details of gets a more realized adaption. Like I wouldnt exactly compare it to a book to movie adaption of FFVII to Rebirth, cause there were visuals for that game, but the way those visuals framed the writing was a lot less detailed than this, and Its Driving Me Up The Wall. Im sitting here screaming at my friend because Cloud isnt smiling in the flashback, im a minute in to this lore setpiece and THATS whats making me lose my mind already/

[aerithkinfaker]

it's been really hard to reconcile what i don't like about the remake vs being excited to see what they're going to do with a story that i really love (which is the original ps1 game). because on one hand i really dislike the leadership on this dev team (nojima is a hack writer that only knows how to appeal to people who just want to fuck the characters and directly misunderstands the core themes of the original game) (hamaguchi is an honest to god sefikura) but on the other hand ff7 means so much to me that i still want to see what they do, even though it'll inevitably drive me fucking bonkers

i just... there was something about playing the rebirth demo, and being forced to play cloud, injured and crawling helplessly on the ground as he watches sephiroth slaughter his townspeople, and be confused because this is sephiroth and just a week before they were fighting together on the hike up to the reactor.

i understand why they're humanizing sephiroth the way they are, they're leaning into crisis core's version of him (which i know not everyone enjoys - the point of his character was that his deliberate distance from humanity is a factor that pushes him over the edge), and i think the way they handled it was really fun and compelling, even if it isn't the same as the original. and then i remembered the stupid shit they did in the first game and i want to bash my head into a wall

i don't think i really have a conclusion. there are way too many problems with the remakes to count (tifa in general, how it seems like the story is just a vehicle for their clerith fanfiction, barret's weird racism towards wutai, etc) but playing the demo is doing stupid things to my brain and giving me a really reluctant sense of hope

[briskofmisery]

WHEN WE WERE YOUNG

TW: Death, cancer

"I knew that what was left of me would always love you, but never in quite the same way." — F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned

June came, but spring still haunted my mind. The moment I entered the summer house, the four enclosed walls enveloped emptiness and hollowness that resembled a raw, exposed wound. With each breath I inhale, I’m set adrift between the ocean’s waves, washed ashore, tossed like riptides along damp sand.

It had been a month since my mother passed away, leaving the world in search of the heavenly stars during the summer season. Some people control their emotions; others are driven by their agony. I was a cynic. While some believed that June would bring a sense of renewal and rebirth, reconciling past heartbreak and inviting a future amidst the waves, I knew better. The moment Liam Meyer from the East Side informed me of the house’s sale listing, I knew I had to make things right in Cousins. Lingering between nightmares and reality, I drove a couple of hours from Brown University to Massachusetts in a matter of days.

Returning to the summer house that once felt like home, I was met with a darkness devoid of light. The memories of my childhood were tucked away behind locked doors, much like secrets in hushed silence. Seeing the ‘For Sale’ sign planted in the ground felt like losing my mother over and over again, a knife repeatedly piercing my heart, leaving me for dead in a sea of desolation.

Everything that happened with my mother these last few years became trapped in my mind. I remember carrying her up the stairs last summer when she was too weak to do so. I remember keeping my mother’s cancer a secret for months before its weight became unbearable. I remember the look my mother gave Jeremiah and me when she chose to undergo the cancer trial after promising herself she wouldn’t. Tears welled up in my eyes, my brother’s face swollen and paralyzed in despair.

The pain enveloped me like a letter addressed to the moon and the stars. This was my secret to bear. I didn’t want Jere to experience the pain and haze of grief of losing my mom all over again like I had. I yanked the stupid sign out of the front yard, tossing it in the garage, as if casting away a symbol of paranoia and turmoil invading our lives.

Gazing into the blackness inside, my mind drifted to the last time I stood within these walls. Only my mother was still alive, and I wasn’t alone. It was with Belly.

I remember chasing her amidst the waves and the season’s first frost in Cousins during the bleak midwinter. I had been driving all night. I wondered whether she had consumed my thoughts since last summer, because I was lost in her sweet melody. I remember the snowflakes adorning the sky, and Belly making dusty hot cocoa, which she proudly swore to be her specialty. Her face drew freckles like constellations in the cosmic illusion of stars. She had words on her cheeks, and I knew she was afraid when our eyes locked. I don’t recall the last time it snowed in Cousins, maybe because my mother never took us here in the wintertime. Belly and I etched snow angels in the frost, and I fell more in love with her, giddy as can be.

When we returned, we nestled beside the living room fireplace, coolness washing over us. Her warm hands brushed delicately against my frozen cheeks, and I think I blushed. I shuddered softly, nuzzling my face into the palm of her hand. “That feels good,” I whispered into the sun’s rays. “Yeah, that’s ‘cause you’re cold-hearted,” she answered. I didn’t lift my gaze as she spoke, only grazing her features, basking in the warmth of her touch as I replied, “For everyone else, maybe. Not for you.” I didn’t look at her when I said it, because I meant every word. Belly had ensnared my mind, enveloped my heart, and illuminated my very soul. She was like a comet streaking through the sky with no starting or ending point. Our eyes locked then, her heartbeat palpable when we kissed, her wearing the infinity necklace I got her last summer. No matter what happens, we’ll still be infinite, I told her. Her lips tasted like salty air and beach sand, drunk with tenderness.

Somewhere between winter and spring, our flame burned to the ground, but our love remained infinite. Tomorrow morning I would call the bank to see if it was possible to access my trust fund to cover the cost of the house, a fragile thread of hope that I clung to desperately. It was Jeremiah’s voice that woke me from my somber haze. His words echoed within the walls of the summer house. No one was supposed to know.

Jere’s voice shattered my reverie, seeking answers beneath futile dreams. I stood beside the fireplace that once flickered fierce flames this past winter, like an immovable object, shaken but unwavering. I refused to leave. Fuck school; all that mattered was preserving Mom’s legacy and saving the house. I was hurt, and I wanted to protect my brother from the pain of losing Mom’s house; my emotions remained hidden, locked away. 

The words escaped me without thinking. Suddenly, Belly emerged from the shadows, her voice a hoarse tone that sent shivers down my spine. I turned toward her, shuddering when I heard her. Amidst changing seasons and tumultuous storms, finding serenity during the chaos proved difficult. I couldn’t believe that Belly was here. I didn’t want her to know; I didn’t want to see her, and I missed her all at the same time. It was like seeing a ghost in the wind, one who haunted me for a lifetime. Refusing to meet her gaze, I averted my eyes; the pain was too much to bear. Seeing Belly was like repeatedly losing a part of myself. An ache that wouldn’t heal. At night, we watched “It Happened One Night,” the first movie my mom and Laurel would watch each summer. I hadn’t realized that come tomorrow, all of this would be over. 

Belly’s presence drew stars around my scars; now, I was bleeding, gasping for air in her wake. Nightfall came; the house still smelled the same, but when we returned to see the house empty, a surge of guilt washed over me for leaving to begin with. I knew leaving was a mistake. One day of hope. One day of freedom. It all faded away. Reminiscing memories of when we were young, now reduced to ashes. We were like innocent little kids skipping stones without a clue. I came to believe that happiness wasn’t meant for me. These hidden truths and choices inflicted a sense of madness, stripping away possibilities of hope. We hadn’t been kids for a long time. I wasn’t the same boy who gave Belly a polar bear with sunglasses, which she named Junior Mint. And she wasn’t the same girl. I should have known better. I should have stayed.

Standing in the living room of the beach house I had known forever, it was nothing more than an empty shell encompassed by four walls – nothing more, nothing less. As I peered around the house, I surveyed the wood and doors that once held meaning. I wanted to cry, but tears didn’t come. Everything crumbled before my eyes, and when I saw Julia, I just fucking lost it. She was the reason for this void within me, the reason for this hollowness and emptiness that consumed me. She had no right to touch anything in this house. These were my mother’s, the things that had brought her joy before she died. This house was ours, a place where her magic touch still lived, even after death. Without my mother’s things, it was just a house.

I wanted to preserve every memory. Infinity, moments with my mother, her painting our portraits, last winter with Belly. I needed to escape this house that seemed to hold faded, forgotten memories. I feared that by losing this house, I would lose all my memories of my mother. I had told Jere that there was the slightest possibility of saving the house; now, I felt like a fraud. A liar. Teenagers shouldn’t bear the burdens of their elders’ mistakes. The pain of standing within those walls was overwhelming. No furniture, no paintings, none of Mom’s cherished knickknacks. Outside there would be peace; a stillness awaited amidst the storm. I longed for a moment of tranquility, a reprieve beneath this cosmic constellation of stars. I wanted quiet. Stillness, even for a moment. Because after I took a breath, it would all be over.

[dwestfieldblog]

2025; THE PRESENT IS TENSE

Hello and happy new fear. Clinging onto ‘sanity’ by a hair’s breath. Time was, for many years, that the first thing I did after morning ablutions was to fire up the net and go to the BBC and CNN and a couple of other news channels to see all the headlines. Now the orange Nero has assumed power, those days are past. So, apart from one paragraph especially for Eric, I will avoid all rants against political/religious/scumbags because the current situation is abominable. Worst in my lifetime. This blog and probably the others will be memories, various bits of almost prose, diary pieces, rather than endless hate filled screeds against the foulness which seems to be sweeping the world. So, I intend to keep it weird and light hearted. For a change. Anyway, alive in 2025….

‘March 1972…’ When I grow up, I want to be a soldier because I like shooting’. A recently found note in my handwriting…Uuf, the pyscho started early on eh? I don’t remember writing that but did love my little collection of toy guns including a Luger parabellum and a James Bond Golden Gun... although in games, I always chose to be a bow and arrow Indian and never a cowboy. Good thing I didn’t get a real one until over thirty years later or it certainly would have been used in High School. Sad to have had to leave it behind, but one shouldn’t carry weapons on planes these days. Frowned upon.

It never occurred to me to want to drive. A horse, motorbike or a bike yes. But if I was greatly rich, I would buy a 2003 Lotus Esprit in gunmetal grey. I might even learn to drive just for that. And a decent speedboat too. Another fantasy was wanting to own a fair-sized hotel…I just liked the idea of changing customers and different stories. Although I would very probably end up exactly like Basil Fawlty, but without the wife.

Dream; (Don’t laugh, I very rarely have such obvious ones) …I was a wizard in a castle where the king’s daughter had her hands tied behind her back by a tubular metal bar with grips at each end around her wrists. Very kink.com. Many things were tried in attempts to set her free, hammer and blade, magic etc but the bar would continually reappear. Eventually I realised the princess herself was making them and they could never be removed unless she herself decided to stop the thoughts which created them. As soon as I knew this to be true, the dream shifted to a far more recent time and I was flying fifty feet above a summer city past my old Primary and Middle School, while playing guitar. (Yes, I know, ok?) I have many dreams where flight is involved and it is always a fine sensation. On waking I found two (normal) keys in my shirt pocket that I had no memory of having put there. I know I must have, but cannot remember why or where and they made no jingle sound when I got into bed. Will check all doors and boxes and see if there is a profound mystery or not. Stay tuned.

(Month later, no idea). Another, in between dream and waking, I heard a voice say ‘All your life, you have been looking FOR the mirror’. Then I saw a mirror, same shape and as a door, I took a knife and cut a slit down the centre. The glass parted like water and I started to be pulled in. I was halfway submerged, when the other part of my brain, the analyst, thought very loudly ‘How fascinating!’ This woke me up. Dreams hang around me infiltrating for 24 hours.

As part of the infrequent ten thousand steps routine, I went on an Omen Walk for the first time in 15 years. First thing I saw up the road (right hand path) was a dead fox stretched on the pavement, soaked by last night’s rain but still beautiful. Noted that the fox is an Eastern symbol of wisdom. A little further on, (left hand path) a peacock suddenly appeared on a wall top, strutting a full display at the traffic…Beauty, rebirth, sinful pride and in Hinduism, linked with the God of war Kartikeya. Also, a symbol of spiritual awakening…very common in times of war. Takes a nightmare to wake most of us up. I allowed my unconscious to digest the images and strode on, holding to the right simply because there was no actual path on the left, but processing my multi-interpretation of possible meanings using Maybe Logic. Had the thought that perception of left and right hand paths depend on which way one is facing…

At the crossroads, I turned left and walked for another mile down a corridor of tall woodland leading into expensive houses. Past my blood brother’s place (this was the anniversary of our first gig together in 1983 a week before my 17th birthday and I got lost in fine memory.) Then down past Elizabethan buildings into an area in which I had lived for ten years and by a college where I learned to take hallucinogens (lysergic, psilocybin) and upped the amphetamines. And had also found my first lovely girlfriend, may J.B rest in peace.

My old home. Remembering deep friendships, first jobs cleaning and in an export warehouse, my parent’s divorce and its effect on my mother. My first nervous breakdown. This was the house where I heard the Angel Choir coming through the astral in February1980. (Yes, I know how that reads but this was before I even had alcohol, let alone drugs or depression. It still seems an accurate description). Back up the hill for mundane tasks, home again, had completely forgotten the plan of an omen walk and ignored any other symbols. As my dad is over fond of saying ‘You must expect these things as you get older’. And in that expectation, draw them to you perhaps.  Next morning I woke to see a magpie eating a rat on the lawn, fascinating in Eastern symbolism…Google the animals…

Autumn 2024 Diary extract…I almost overdosed last week, haven’t done that for many, many years, still managed to take a grim and spaced selfie before collapsing. Bit like those fools who film themselves hanging by their fingertips from the top of skyscrapers and then fall. Hey look at me! Famous last words, along with ‘I know what I’m doing’…’ Kids, don’t mix half a bottle of whisky with Tramadol and Valium, it may feel wonderful (up to the point where there are no longer any feelings at all) but if you survive, the next nine days can leave you like an extremely numbed and uprooted vegetable. I will probably do it again this week because I want/need oblivion these days and then the pills will have run out, so at least I won’t get addicted. That’s my ‘problem focused strategy’ for the psychologists. Step by step, says the falling man.

At some time in the summer of 1985, I went with my older brother David T, to play a gig of my songs and cover versions in Bunjies folk club in London. I had no idea that Bert Jansch, John Renbourne, Paul Simon, Bob Dylan and David Bowie etc had played there, if I had, I would have been paralysed with stage fright. As it is, years later, I am embarrassed at the songs I chose to play and had problems tuning my new guitar strings. The night before at 10pm, I had been arrested for riding a borrowed bike on the pavement and looking like a refugee from the Woodstock festival…Taken to a police station, strip-searched and left in a cell with bloodstains on the walls for four hours, no water or phone call.

Luckily, I had been stopped before getting home as I had been going to collect a lump of hash and return to a friend’s house to smoke and play. And there had been some doubt about supplying the cops with the address of the bike’s owner as the front room was a jungle of five-foot marihuana plants, without curtains. As it was, I waited a couple of hours to be sure no lights would be on there. But my stoned friend was less than amused to be woken by a uniformed officer at 2am inquiring whether he knew me. He bailed me out and is a lawyer now. He used to play excellent drums in my first band. More later, maybe.

So, Eric’s long paragraph…The USA government, a cabinet of mouth breathing bottom feeders or as Paul Merton put it; ‘A cavalcade of bozos’. Steve Bannon ‘You’re either a populist nationalist or a global elitist.’ Conspiracy theorists, vaccine deniers, climate change and holocaust deniers, apologists for Kremlin propaganda, sleazeball Russian assets to a man and woman, white supremacists, a guy who said about germs that ‘I can’t see them, therefore they are not real’. But of course, he was joking. People with very little or zero policy experience but are good on television. A Baptist preacher as an ambassador to Israel ‘The title deed was given by God to Abraham and to his heirs’. Be fun proving that in court, calling God as a character witness. And a corrupt senate to wave them through as ok. Appointing people to run the institutions they have promised to destroy. Project 2025 and Q Onanonsense. After reading various right wing reports of the cops at pro Palestine demonstrations in London and their (literally justified) actions during the riots across Britain organised by the criminal ‘Tommy Robinson’, Elon Musk tweeted ‘Britain is going full Stalin...the people of Britain have had enough of a tyrannical police state’. A. HOLE. This from a white South African, who sucks up to Russia and China. No double standards there then.The android Zuckerberg is now following lickspittle suit withremoving fact checkers on Facebook.And Trump’sderanged schtick about Canada and Greenland. Really hard to avoid the sense that the world has less than four years to avoid an irrevocable end game for humans with the far right and populists assuming control over the suckers, the SCMUCKS of the West. Traitors selling out their countries to genuine enemies, a firing squad would be too fast for their executions.From now on, I will get any news solely from comedians.Democracy doesn’t count when the populace are a majority ofeasily manipulatedidiots. You cannot convince stupidity with anything other than stupidity. ‘The reason they call it the American dream is because you have to be asleep to believe it.’ George Carlin

‘Scratch any cynic and you’ll find a disappointed idealist’ ‘Those who dance are considered insane by those who can’t hear the music’. Carlin

Dave’s Pet Hates#1 People who use the word ‘literally’ as a metaphor.

Our experiments create the universe observed by our experiments. How do you know you are thinking? ‘God is a circle whose centre is everywhere and whose circumference is nowhere’. Empedocles.

I don’t care what it looks like as long as it tastes good. DW.

Can you remember the first planet? We are creating the ‘God’ that will destroy and recreate us. ‘The non-local correlation has been proved on the sub atomic level five times.’ Take the information from the data and meditate upon it without emotion. Then run and thrill with it and fire that arrow into the river.

Perhaps I will stay with this format of reminiscing rather than too much dark stuff, depends how I feel, it always does. May your God/Goddess go with you in these end times, stay well and at very least, more optimystic than I feel right now. Hope I can remain in Bohemia. Love ALWAYS, whatever.

[zahri-melitor]

Okay. I’ve started Rebirth and read the opening stories of the following titles:-

Batman

Detective Comics

Nightwing

Batgirl

Batgirl and the Birds of Prey

I’m paused JUST before Night of the Monster Men and so I haven’t added All-Star Batman yet.

My first observation? Oh what a relief. It’s not perfect. There is work to do and it’s not a straight roll back to preboot but after reading my way through n52, characters and dynamics I recognise are back. It’s like DC suddenly remembered that people enjoy characters interacting with each other. And so, as best as I can tell, the concept was to sort of scatter everyone back to team positions that would make sense if the last comic you picked up was in 2011.

There is definitely some inferred off-screen characterisation going on: both Dick/Babs and Tim/Steph are extant relationships again. Dick and Babs had been longing ‘will they’ exes for the last 5 years of writing where they kept being out of sync with each other (the last time the two were actively dating on page was in 2003; the failed engagement was 2006, and they’d been caring exes shading back to flirting from about 2010 onwards). Tim/Steph broke up in 2004 and at BEST were amicable for 2009-2011.

Batman: Rebirth #1 – this is just a really lovely little stand alone issue that’s setting up Bruce taking Duke on as an active student. It’s just tightly written, with an interesting plot, nods at traditional characterisation, a less-used but known villain – it works really well as basically a training case for Duke. Note for everyone – Duke is still just a kid learning to be a vigilante at this point in the classic Robin model.

Batman #1-6 (2016): The team here is Bruce, Duke, Henry Clover and Claire Clover. This really feels like a back-to-basics storyline. The parallels between Henry and Bruce are not subtle, and they’re not meant to be; Bruce rescuing a family in his own situation and how it plays out is a well trodden story in DC, as is characters getting powers that the use of which ends up harming them. It was almost a modernisation of a Silver Age or Bronze Age story device that we’ve all seen plenty of times – which I guess makes sense for a Tom King story. I do have a soft spot for Claire here. This absolutely feels like a one-storyline-and-done set of characters (Gotham and Gotham Girl) who get hauled out occasionally in the future but mostly left alone. Waller seems somewhat more herself but unfortunately has still not recovered for her dieting. Every time they haul Psycho-Pirate out I wait for him to make some commentary on multiversal stuff, given he’s technically still on the shortlist of people who remember pre-Crisis, I believe?

Honestly, this storyline was mostly a relief after some of Snyder’s drama (said with full tongue in cheek over the fact it also included Bruce steering a crashing plane from the outside with cable and two rocket thrusters)

Nightwing: Rebirth #1 and Nightwing #1-4 (2016): This is very much a transitional storyline. It’s Dick’s story, but Damian, Bruce and Barbara are popping in and out of it. In terms of moving on fast from Grayson, the fact that Tim Seeley is writing this means that we don’t get a clean break (this is still basically a spy mystery story), but Dick putting back on the Nightwing suit with blue was such a moment of relief, I can’t tell you how big. He hadn’t worn that since 2009. It also unfortunately involves Court of Owls drama carried over from Batman & Robin Eternal and the 2011 Batman and Nightwing runs, but hey, Dick’s back talking to people, he sounds more like himself, he’s wearing BLUE, and he’s hanging out with Damian in a ‘I love him but he drives me up the wall’ way which is honestly not bad as characterisation. Also this line from Nightwing #2 (2016) stuck with me: “But Batman also taught me every life is worth saving. Even if it always seemed like I believed it more than he did.” While I have my quibbles over the second line (ACTUALLY Seeley that philosophy is pretty fundamental to Bruce), for Dick? At this exact moment in time? After recent events? It feels like a renewal. Every life is worth saving.

Damian here is an irritating little snot, but in the largely affectionate way he tends to get in better writing with Dick, and he’s still acting like a kid, which is always nice to see.

Detective Comics #934-#940: I’m not crying, my eyes are just watering, okay? Oh my GOD. This is Kate Kane, Tim, Cass, Steph and for some reason Basil Karlo on a team together. Okay. I see why Tynion’s run is considered a highlight. It’s not perfect, it’s in no way at all perfect, but Tynion took on an unenviable task (merging Tim, Cass and Steph into usable versions of their preboot characterisation/personalities grafted on to the existing situation of all three characters at the end of n52) and he did it in a way that spent a lot of time signalling that yes, he’s actually read their solo runs. They all had moments where they sounded like themselves and acted like themselves.

Tim still had his stupid arm computer and is at peak arrogance and at one point said “This is what happens when you give a sixteen-year-old genius who doesn’t sleep an unlimited budget” (sigh. SIGH. C’mon, Tynion) but my initial fears from the way the first issue was framed that Tim was going to be treated as less capable than Kate Kane (someone who, even in n52, Tim had spent more time as a vigilante than) were relieved by Tim slotting capably into the ‘support strategy’ role he is so good at. Of course as well then he is sort-of not-really playing around with the idea of moving on (he’s got his invite for university but you can read him as either ‘wanting to move on but trapped by Bruce inviting him back to being closer’ or as ‘Tim didn’t expect to get this, is stymied by it, and feels he’s being pushed about taking the opportunity if he lets people know’). It’s a concept he flirts with on occasion but can’t go through with. And then my sweet boy sacrifices himself and shows up Ulysses fucking Hadrian bastard Armstrong and… we get the acknowledgement that TIM IS THE GLUE. He’s just pulled this team into working together in a functional manner and we get “You were reconnecting threads that could not be reconnected. You’re so loved, so deeply intertwined. It became crucial that we take you off the field.” Which? He hasn’t been for 5 years of stories. That’s my boy, my fix-it Robin.

Steph…is sort of controlling and clearly lacking in training and has some edges to her and bickers with Tim? Which oh my god, I can see actual continuity with pre-War Games Steph here. It’s not perfect, she’s suddenly in an established relationship with Tim and quite focused on that, but I can see some Dixon in her! It’s a miracle!

Cass has had the hardest reboot of the lot and has lost 99% of her vocabulary and is back to her cryptid ways, but even there I can see Batgirl 2000 characterisation moments peeking through. She drops in the window while Tim is stripping down (Fresh Blood! FRESH BLOOD MY BELOVED. The parallels here!), she supports Tim during a fight but pushes Steph out of the way and takes over…that’s Cass’s assessment of their fighting abilities. That’s Steph overreaching her capacity and Cass dropping in to haul her out of trouble.

Kate Kane is very much Kate Kane and while I disbelieve that she and Bruce are really that close in age, this is the start of Rebirth and doing things like gently stretching back out the timeline so that we’re in Year 18 or so again, not Year 6. (Year 18 is rough back-of-the-envelope Year 3 = Graysons fall, Year 13 = ALPOD, Year 15 = NML, Year 17 = OYL to Reborn, then n52 is a single year). I like seeing her actually spend some time actively working with other Bat characters if she’s going to be fully integrated, rather than just turning up for events.

Batgirl #1-5 2016: oh Babs. While this run is winking at past Barbara characterisation (the use of Amy Beddoes as an alias! However there is no awareness that that is a name known by the Suicide Squad and Waller and not only heavily linked to Oracle, but to Barbara’s feelings about guns and Joker), it remains squarely in the ‘fluffy light storytelling that might be suitable for a 22-23 year old character but doesn’t match anything about Barbara Gordon’. I really wish this was good.

It is, I guess, an adequate tonal sequel to Burnside, and if that’s your Barbara you will probably enjoy it, but I can’t help but mentally want to slot every single one of these stories into a past history that occurred during Babs’ ORIGINAL stint at Batgirl.

The concept of Barbara going on a world training tour break isn’t bad and echoes Cass being sent off to Hong Kong (though Hong Kong is skipped over for Tokyo, Singapore, Seoul and Shanghai), but the heavy reliance on Barbara’s eidetic memory as her strong point and THEN Barbara ‘switching it off’ to be faster???

Batgirl and the Birds of Prey Rebirth & #1-6: It's Barbara, Dinah and Helena all on a team together? Miracles really do come true!

First point out of the gate: yes, I hate that this contains several take-thats at fans of Barbara as Oracle. I think they're mean spirited and exhausting to read. There is absolutely nothing wrong with fans of a team created by Oracle wanting to see it lead by ORACLE. THAT SAID, characterisationwise this is the closest I've had to my girls for a while.

Barbara is far more like Simone's n52 Batgirl than Burnside. She actually acknowledges aspects of her past, and the struggles it's brought with it and why that should have resulted in growth.

Dinah is unfortunately still running around as Dinah Drake Lance with the shitty n52 backstory retcon intact and reliance on the band stuff. Sorry, Dinah. The first run really didn't do much to recanonise anything preboot for Dinah, just outlined her new history, though Siu Jerk Jai got a few references.

Helena? Look. This is the fourth? version of Helena's origin I've read and it looks like it's most riffed off Huntress Year One, and it's sticking with Helena's mum having an affair, sigh. However, on the scale of "is this actually Helena Bertinelli", there is so much credit on the 'once again has a backstory that actually works as a Helena Bertinelli backstory' side of the ledger that I don't really care. This is about the process of rehabilitation, and Helena is not just a Bertinelli, but the first thing she does is butt heads with Barbara over their combined stubbornness and her refusal to take direction, soooo. Yeah, pretty stoked.

I will say, with this lineup of new histories, instead of being the "two cops' daughters and a mafia princess" group it's now the "Missing Mothers Who Might Be Evil Issues" team. Which is a downgrade. I wouldn't care about them bonding over their mothers so much if it wasn't stereotype missing mother hour.

Overall conclusion?

I became emotional reading Batman: Rebirth, 'Tec, and B&BOP. Even for their flaws they all were trying hard and hit me with what they were attempting to achieve.

This was in no way a complete fix, and heck DC is STILL untangling some of the threads that they started trying to fix here with Rebirth, 8 years later. But oh it is enjoyable to see writing teams actually try and act like yeah, people are allowed to like preboot characterisation.

[kaleihasmo]

Rebirth Of The Empress

Something's in the works, and getting ready for takeoff; But it all relies on me to get out of my own way. Y'know, like that certain feeling you get when you’re about to go over the first drop of a rollercoaster. A cool breeze gently passing by rustling your hair, that light feeling and butterfly excitement.

Just ever quieting the mind, and transitioning into the body. But also, driving myself into non-desire has been a bit of a double-edged sword because now I don’t want anything; I push away. I’ve come across something recently that’s kind of reconciled that thought though—or rather a particular way of interpreting “as above, so below” for lack of a better vernacular.

It exists for a reason, so use it with careful intent. Really it’s become a game of “check yourself before moving your piece.” But also, what in the hell am I looking at? lol

Like… seeing without directly looking. The mind wants to ascribe ideas, thoughts, connections. But that’s also the blind point. Just don’t operate within that realm solely, I reckon?

Ah, the quantum realm lmao. A true spectacle to behold.

Don’t reject unanimous reality for individual reality as well; that’s another one. There are certain things that are the ground rules for how the whole thing works. I feel like that’s a basic rule but like. It’s crazy out here with how hyper-individualized society has become.

If operating under the principle that existence is pure love, no matter the form, then there is nothing to fear.

So then anything is possible. I can recreate my universe as many times, however complex or benign. That is that, for me. Just as I am that too.

I was really caught up in my crown chakra for a while there, and it drove me up the walls because it was all this newfound info and perspective shifts without being grounded properly. But that’s the thing about those moments—it takes time to come back to earth and properly process all the new DLC lol.

And coming back down hurts too. It’s like the mother taking the baby away from her tit for biting her.

The lows are more interesting than the highs at this point. Like when I first got into all this, I was chasing the dragon to the point of self-destruction to keep milking every drop. Then you realize how far you’ve dragged yourself down in your own holy conquest, and it’s like, far out, man.

Arguably the best part about it is no roadmap or contexts. I may use certain words or phrases, but it’s mostly for that sake. I don’t convene with anyone anymore. I don’t go looking through stuff like catalogues for my next extensive study. I just let everything approach me, and base my judgments off the intuition garnered in those moments to navigate further.

And to reach such a level of process at 25, and this is just the tip of my iceberg? Shit man lmfao

I feel ageless, like this body is just a rental vehicle. Still treat it nice ofc, or else you incur some hefty fees and fines. But like, I don’t feel any particular age, gender, etc etc. Sitting within the awareness behind the eyes.

I started out with Ouija boards and burning candles in the woods lmfao. And now we’re here. I still do rituals every so often. But the deities pertained to have changed drastically. Like Ma Kali is a matron goddess in my book, alongside Lilith and Ishtar.

But it’s all the same energy ultimately. The stories that unfold though...