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syneilesis · 4 days ago

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[fic] Impact Factor

Impact Factor

Love and Deepspace | Zayne (Li Shen) x Main-Character!Reader | G | 4k words | ao3 link

god, i'm so lovesick. what have you done to me? You tell Zayne that you're co-authoring a research paper. He finds himself wanting and waiting to read it.

A/N: For @seraphiism 's 2024 writing event. I chose Lovesick by Laufey. I know. Zayne? Lovesick? Lmao I don't know if I pulled it off, but I have to write for Zayne at least once.

I gave this fic a single, cursory proofread. Any mistake is still my fault. Divider by @/saradika

“By the way, a professor of mine in college reached out to me last week and asked me if I was interested in co-authoring an article with her on the phenomenology of vocation of the people working in Hunters Association.”

The clacking of the keyboard is crisp and loud in the silverlined office, accompanied by the low hum of the airconditioner. Zayne's attention remains on the computer, updating your status condition. He makes a brief noise to indicate that he's listening, and when he takes his gaze away from the desktop he finds you watching him with a faint grin on your face.

“Do you want me to guess your reply?”

That faint grin grows wide and whole.

“What do you think?”

Zayne leans back and rolls his chair a little farther, reaching out to turn on the printer. The machine whirls to life, chatters.

“You accepted the offer, of course.” He returns to his laptop and clicks on the print icon. “You don't have the heart to refuse your professor.”

“Dr. Zayne, you know me so well.”

Something in the way you said it compels him to turn to you again. Your expression hasn't changed, but the fall of your hair frames your slightly narrowed eyes that sparkle under the bright fluorescent light, like rare midday stars. It staggers the beats of Zayne's heart for two seconds, seizes his throat, and in that sliver of a moment Zayne forgets to breathe.

“Maybe it's because you're transparent,” he says, after retrieving the prescription from the printer. He hands you the paper, and surprise stretches your features. He clarifies: “Supplements. Undoubtedly you will need it when you begin your research.”

“Nothing less from my doctor.” My. The word is malleable around your mouth. And then: “I'm transparent? Is that a bad thing?”

“It's not a flaw.” He signs the healthcare forms you passed onto him. “But neither is it a virtue.”

“Hmm. Then, I guess I'll watch myself.”

His head jerks at your response, and Zayne has something to say to that—something like your not needing to be conscious of how open you are—but then your watch beeps and you apologize for the sudden departure.

Alone in his office, Zayne sinks into his chair and closes his eyes.

▼

That exchange, brief yet odd, lingers in Zayne's mind, like a stone at the base of his brain, next to the stem and cerebellum. He can feel its weight, its matter, solid and bothersome that at one point Greyson stops and asks him, “Are you okay, Dr. Zayne? You seem to be distracted today.”

A flash of memory; the word transparent, your answer. Were it not for the emergency mission, he would have hastened to add that transparency is closely associated with sincerity—and that is a virtue. He imagines a version of you as secretive as a glacier, as closed-off as a fortress, and the dissonance it invites rings discordant in the history between you—you who have always reached out to him first.

His hands itch for the phone that's secluded in one of his drawers, away from distraction, from memory. Zayne is, after all, duty first, the rest a distant second.

“It's nothing,” he tells Greyson. “I'm fine.”

“Maybe it's time for a vacation? You've been busy—busier than usual—lately.”

“I'll take a vacation at the end of the year. Right now, you're needed in the meeting room for a briefing.”

When Greyson clears the area, Zayne turns and sees Yvonne near the entrance of the lobby, studying him, her face arranged in a way that invites him to defend himself for some reason. But he resists the irrational urge.

He meets her scrutiny with a long and stoic gaze, and she shakes her head, wordless, then continues on with her work.

Left in the hallway, Zayne sighs and goes back to his office.

▼

“Dr. Zayne!”

Shapes of different colors coalesce into your reflection on the glass that displays the myriad cakes Zayne's been deliberating upon for the last fifteen minutes. The figure looms larger and larger, until it sidles up next to him and he straightens up, turning to his side.

“What a coincidence,” you continue with a glancing smile, hand on your chin as you survey the available pastries for purchase. “Are you buying desserts too?”

Earlier, Akso Hospital had a rare moment of slowness that allowed its personnel to indulge in a breather, which afforded Zayne to clock out on time. As a treat—and he will never admit this to anyone—he's stopped by the bakeshop on the way home, and to his surprise, here you are as well.

To your question he can only give a noncommittal sound; then to the cashier he points at the sea salt caramel vanilla slice that he's wanted to try for a while now. Both you and the cashier let out an intrigued Oh! before the purchase is processed at the register.

“Sea salt caramel vanilla,” you say with an evaluatory seriousness, “good choice.”

Zayne pinches the bridge of his nose.

“By the way, I've started on the research project. Been doing some preliminary reading since I don't want to disappoint my former professor. So far I'm doing well—the supplements are a great help!”

The supplements. He had an inkling that, as you are wont to do with every mission, you were rushing into this project with all your mind and body, tunnel-visioned, only the end goal visible in your sights. This unfortunately excludes concerns regarding your health, and Zayne is correct: all nighters and skipped meals, both of which erode the state of a person's health. When you are focused on something, that something takes the highest priority, and he can't always be with you all the time to remind you to take a break, or eat healthy food, or drink water. Which is why: supplements. They're not preventative, but at least they mitigate.

And it seems you're telling the truth: no tightness in your eyes and tautness in the shape of your mouth. In this case—in the case of your aspiration to conceal—you have not changed—or at least attempted to hold yourself back. Something in his chest loosens, smooths the tenseness out of his muscles that Zayne hasn't realized is there.

This is something to ponder, but not at the moment.

“I don't have to remind you that supplements are not substitutes for healthy food and proper sleep, do I?”

“Of course not! Even I know that.” But then your expression turns sheepish. “In practice, that's a little ...”

Zayne pinches the bridge of his nose again.

“But don't worry too much about me, Dr. Zayne! I'm taking care of myself just fine!”

“That doesn't instill much confidence.”

“How about this, then?” And you face him fully, a ready smile brimming with its own confidence and assurance, as radiant as an aurora. “If something happens, you will be the first person I'll turn to.”

At that Zayne pauses. The easy trust you bring between the both of you warms his neck, the back of it, climbing up, up, up to the tips of his ears and to his cheeks. He moves on to the cashier, his back on you.

“Try not to let that 'something' happen, but I know you're too stubborn to listen.”

A chuckle, and then: “I can't make any promises, but I'll try.”

This time, Zayne turns back.

“'Try' implies effort, so I am expecting effort.”

You snap a salute, grinning. “Got it, Doc!”

▼

The day after that, Zayne begins to read up on the subject of phenomenology.

▼

It won't be a couple of weeks until Zayne sees you again—but this time it's under the harsh hospital lights and the din of frantic footsteps and rolling wheels, the mixed scents of blood and antiseptic stinging his nose. A Wanderer surge disrupted the southern part of Linkon, and of the hunters dispatched you had been one of them.

Zayne glides around the moving bodies, steps never faltering until he finds you tucked in a corner, cradling your broken arm.

When his shadow falls upon your involuted frame, you lift your head and a rueful grin greets him. Your glass-sheen gaze doesn't escape his scrutiny.

He's wearing his white coat, and both of his hands retreat into its pockets, where he closes them into tight fists. If Zayne tilts his head a little more to the right, he can see a lengthy gash that lines along your temple and into your scalp, covered by your blood-crusted hair. He is painfully aware that this is part and parcel of your profession, the risk that endangers a hunter during a mission. A part of him is thankful that today it is only a broken arm and a couple of wounds. It could have been much worse, and Zayne refuses to imagine a scenario where you come into the hospital drained of vitality. A frustrated sigh threatens to spill out of him, but he endures, and just pointedly shoots you a disappointed look.

“So this is all the effort that you mentioned just amounted to.”

“To be fair I was doing well for a couple of hours until I had to rescue a civilian trapped in a damaged building.”

“That is commendable.” And he means it. But—“Follow that nurse with the brown clipboard. He's in charge of injuries like yours. Can you walk that far?”

Your uninjured hand braces against the wall and you pull yourself up, the motion not quite fluid but not a slow stagger either. Zayne would have assisted you, but it seems that you can do it on your own.

“It's my arm that's broken, not my legs.” A wincing smile, and you start to make your way forward. “I know that you have to take care of other people, Dr. Zayne, but thanks for checking up on me.”

Behind him, a nurse calls his name, a signal to go back to his work. There are other patients who need his attention more than you do, and overall you seem fine, still put together. A broken arm can heal over time, given proper medical care. And Zayne knows, intimately, that Akso does not lack for anything.

Still. It's not entirely on purpose, but Zayne calls your name.

“I—” he begins, as you slow down to wait for whatever he's going to say. His throat struggles, constricting and opening in subconscious reflex. “I'd still rather not worry about you like this.”

In and around the space between you and him, the hospital remains astir—shadows and silhouettes slipping in and out of Zayne's sight—until they give way to the blossoming smile on your face, eclipsing everything from the back to the fore, a pinpoint mark on the map.

Later, even as he tends to his patients, your smile persists in Zayne's mind, an afterimage that refuses to disappear behind his eyelids.

▼

Exactly one week after that incident, Zayne receives a bouquet of jasmines and a box of banana bread. Attached to it is a pristine white card with a line written: Don't forget to take care of yourself too!

The card stays in his breast pocket well beyond his working hours, right next to his beating heart.

▼

Days pass, weeks, months, and Zayne finds himself browsing through phenomenology journals during his break in the hopes of seeing your name in one of them. He knows that you'll tell him once it's published, but there's a part of him that clamors for the first touch of knowledge, the letters that make up your name woven in the glowing screen of his tablet.

At the same time, Greyson and Yvonne have bitten into their suspicions—whatever they are, Zayne refuses to ask—and swallowed the succulence as if it's a juicy truth. Often he sees Greyson glancing at him with a shadow of a smile, a quick sleight of hand that when Zayne fully faces him his expression is already ironed out and professional. Yvonne is no better: all glimmering eyes and knowing grins and incessant questions about his mood. Once, he asked the reason for the barrage of questions and Yvonne ignored the frost in his voice and tittered, telling him that sometimes in life, they have to combat the monotony with exciting things.

It worries him somewhat that you and Yvonne and even Greyson have been getting along quite well for a time now.

But your name still doesn't appear, and it doesn't seem to be appearing in the foreseeable future. Still Zayne searches, his fingers already making a habit of typing your name in the bar, his heart beating for a yes.

▼

At some point, he's asked about your progress.

“It's been going well,” you answer. “Professor made some comments about the part in my results and discussion, so I'm going to revise that. I think we can submit it by next month if we maintain the pace.”

After a thoughtful pause, you rest your arms on his desk, cushion your chin on them, and angle him a sly look.

“Are you offering to proofread my work, Dr. Zayne?”

“I may need a box of red pens for that.”

That jolts a laugh out of you, and you recover by sending a mock pout his way.

“I’ll have you know that I was a diligent writer in college! I won in essay writing competitions!”

“Is that so? Then I suppose your first foray in academic publishing will be a successful ‘accepted with minor revisions’ reply from the editor.”

“Of course! Oh, fine, fine. I won’t ask you to proofread the manuscript. You can just wait until it’s published.”

A small, genuine smile. “I’m looking forward to it.”

▼

Eventually, he receives a text that says, We finally submitted the article! Now we just have to wait 🫣

He excuses himself from a cluster of medical professionals talking about the latest breakthroughs in oncology and parks himself beside the long table of drinks. He texts back: Watch out for Reviewer #2. They’re always the culprit.

It takes a full ten minutes before you reply, and during that period of anticipation four individuals have come up to him and attempted to pull him into a conversation about his accomplishments and recent research—one even braving to entice him into applying to another hospital.

Zayne shakes them off as politely as he can (and to that one poacher he gives a cold and resolute no). When his phone beeps, he turns away and redirects his undivided attention to the screen. All your latest message contains is a single salute emoji and the single-word sentence Gotcha! A laugh startles out of him, which Yvonne—having developed an eagle eye for Zayne in the recent weeks—notices and she scurries over to Greyson, bowing their heads in hushed whispers, glancing at him every now and then.

He's realized what they'd been talking about whenever he's in their vicinity, and he's tempted to refute their assumptions and retaliate accordingly. But the stone-weight in his mind had transformed into a persistent itch that does not choose when it strikes. In most cases it's merely annoying, but on rare occasions it is, frankly, merciless. A good-night text echoes in his dreams, and Zayne wakes with a thick sweetness coating the inside of his mouth. A fleeting touch from your worried hand burns the skin of his arm, the heat seeping into the layers until it reaches the subcutaneous tissue, where it spreads all over his body through the veins. He has to evade your glare to hide the ruddiness of his cheeks. Capitulation is the only option he had to choose in the end, and the idea of surrendering to this melts away the reflexive inquiry of when and how and why—a trait he had to hone as a doctor and a researcher.

What else is left when all the signs are pointing to this one immutable conclusion?

▼

On the day and hour your article is published Zayne is in the middle of a delicate surgery that takes him five hours and two hysterical family members of the patient—even with Evol involved. He emerges from the operating room with good news and exhausted-yet-relieved colleagues, Greyson's smile emerging from the doors the first indicator of a successful operation.

The patient's mother clings to him in tearful gratitude.

He orients the family on the next steps, and as he signs the healthcare forms he discovers a new slice of wound on the back of his hand, thin but lengthy. He has long since accepted that his hands, his arms, will forever be spattered with scars, and if that's the price he has to pay for saving lives, then it's of no consequence to him.

(Once, he had caught your gaze glued to his hands, so he snapped his fingers, startling you into looking at his face.

“What was that for?” you demanded.

“You're not paying attention.”

“I was just—” you bit your lip, torn. A pause, then: “Did they hurt—each one of them?”

He glanced down and studied each scar. Too many, you'd probably think. But not once had they bothered him.

“I never even noticed them in the first place, so no.”

“Okay.” Your eyes were crystal glass and the deep breath you took was stuttering in all its inelegance. “Okay.”)

A sliver of a break provides him the opportunity to sink into reprieve, and his hand gropes for his phone on the desk, peeking out under a sheaf of documents that he has to fill out later.

A cursory look at the screen, and then Zayne is leaping for the computer.

The research article you and your professor had written is kept behind a paywall. Zayne spares a moment to shut his eyes in irritation. He's fortunate that his university library account is still active, so he utilizes that privilege to gain access to the article’s full version, made available by the university’s database.

When the file loads, he syncs it to his tablet, after which he leans back on the chair and settles to read. He can locate which parts you had a hand in writing, and the parts where your style comes out. It isn't his field, but he has read enough to venture that the insights of this paper are valuable. Unwittingly, a proud smile surfaces on his lips.

At the end of the article, in the acknowledgment section, something is curiously written:

The co-author is grateful for the moral and medical support of Akso Hospital's Dr. Zayne. Dr. Zayne, would you like to have dinner with me? As a date. Yes, I'm asking you out.

Zayne’s mind blanks out and the itch returns, scrabbling at the walls of his skull, loud and frenetic and overwhelming all his senses. His entire body warms and the sensation of crawling needles prickle at his skin. Everything is white noise; his heart threatens to jump out of his ribcage. He gets the ridiculous thought that he can't perform a surgery on himself.

The next thing he knows, he's driving his car at the same time dialing your number. The car speakers amplify the ringing tone once his phone is attached to the dashboard. Both his hands tightly grip the steering wheel.

When the call connects, he opens with “What would you do if I hadn't read your article?”

He can practically hear the smile in your voice; it resounds around the car interior. “That's not an option, Dr. Zayne. You would have definitely read the article.”

Laughter bubbles up inside him; he tamps it down. “Confident now, are we?”

“Of course!” A pause; a shuffle of feet. You must be heading to another room. “I hear car engine, where are you now?”

“On the way to your apartment.”

“Wait, don't—go to this restaurant instead. I'll text you the address. I have it all reserved and ready.”

He blinks once, twice, surprise slackening the muscles on his face. “... You haven't even heard my answer yet.”

“You can tell me at the restaurant. And then we'll celebrate with excellent food, excellent wine, and scrumptious desserts.”

“You sound so certain about receiving a positive response.”

“I'm optimistic that way, Dr. Zayne. I'm heading out now—I'll see you in a bit!”

You hang up, and the speakers beep into silence. Two seconds later Zayne presses the hazard switch. The car slows down and then comes to a halt on the side of the road. Other vehicles zoom past him. Without the need to drive, Zayne can finally give in to the urge to exhale aloud and let out a brief yet astounded laugh, forehead pressing against the leather smoothness of the steering wheel.

You've always been transparent. But Zayne has made the crucial mistake of neglecting the fact that you are also clever. If this were a competition, you've already won.

▼

You're already at the restaurant when he arrives, sat on the corner facing the floor-to-ceiling windows, the shifting lights outside dancing over your serene profile. Your elbows rest on the table, where everything is already set up except the food. A vase of red roses at the center completes the picturesque scene.

You lift your head and welcome him with a triumphant grin once he's a few steps away. And when he settles on the chair opposite you, you lean forward and stare at him expectantly.

“You could have asked like a normal person,” Zayne begins.

“I could have,” you agree, nodding, “but I like it this way. I like to get closer to you through the things you do.”

Another moment of Zayne getting caught off-center: the warmth flushing outward from the core of his body like vibrant ink on clean, clear water. He has to lower his gaze from the sheer brilliance of your certainty, the way your patience and care have allowed this moment between the two of you, something that he has never imagined culminating like this: two people sitting opposite each other, in this softly lit restaurant while the world bursts into festive lights outside it. The tender way your hand moves across the table, stopping right before the flower vase, as if affording him the liberty to arrive at a decision Zayne has already made, many, many months (years) ago, just buried under the strata of responsibilities, boundaries, and improbabilities.

Never the when, never the how, never the why. It is, only, sublimely, this.

Zayne sighs with a rueful shake of his head. “It's not yet too late—maybe I should answer by publishing my own research article.” But the hand meeting yours belies his words.

Your smile: pleased, pleasure, like the sun emerging from the winter sky.

He's too occupied with the touch of your hand and the radiance of your expression that Zayne misses the throwaway comment that tumbles past his lips:

“If we're talking about getting closer through doing the things the other does, then I suppose I should propose to you when we're in the middle of a Wanderer invasion.”

And then he realizes what he just said.

Zayne whips his head up, heart in throat, and scrambles for an excuse. “What I meant was—”

“Getting ahead of ourselves now, are we?” Your face is pure indulgence, pure bliss. Your hand squeezes his, not letting go. “Don't worry, Dr. Zayne; I'm looking forward to it.”

And that lustrous smile, sustained. Zayne relaxes and you release him to clap your hands together, delighted.

“Now then! Shall we have our dinner?”

▼

(You have, indeed, delivered in all aspects: excellent food, excellent wine, and scrumptious desserts.)

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missingn000 · 10 months ago

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a note about tpg's hiatus

hi everyone!! i've missed y'all <33 i want to share a quick note on tpg's hiatus, and how long it will last.

first and foremost, the tl;dr: i will not abandon tpg. the story remains incredibly important to me, and this hiatus is only that: a hiatus. i will return eventually, and while i am not exactly sure when "eventually" is, i hope to begin updating again soon.

now the long explanation. tpg's hiatus has lasted much, much longer than i expected. it wasn't until i took a break that i realized how mentally and emotionally drained i was after writing 600k+ in 2 years, along with being an engineering master's student then starting a job in aerospace. especially after writing sukuna's backstory (75k+ words in one month), my brain was utterly fried. all in all, it's been a lot.

as some of you may know, i started watching one piece in september. and i love it! it's an incredibly fun, well-written feel-good series. it's been a refreshing mental break to engage with a new series, especially since jjk canon has been so disappointing in both content and writing quality.

if you check my ao3, you'll notice i took a break from jjk with other series in the past: namely dr. stone, sxf, and natsume yuujinchou. this is necessary for me to remain creative and explore narrative themes that i bring back to tpg when i return to it. but by the time my recent hiatus started, it had been well over a year since i engaged with any other series than jjk, and it was starting to take its toll on me. i'm almost caught up on one piece now, which means i'll be able to focus on tpg again soon.

when i return from tpg's hiatus, updates may be slower. releasing 15k+ word chapters every 2-4 weeks was incredibly mentally taxing and required much of my time and focus to constantly be on the story. it wasn't healthy, and other areas of my life were impacted negatively. it can be easy to forget that i'm a real person with real-life responsibilities writing this story in my spare time for free -- even i sometimes forgot this.

another note on why taking a break has been so necessary is my mental health. when season 2 released and toji + satosugu was animated, the fandom exploded and tpg's readership drastically increased. while this meant an influx of amazing love and support, i also started to receive rude and hateful comments and messages.

don't get me wrong: not everyone has to like tpg. that's totally fine! but as a very sensitive person, receiving hate took a huge toll on my mental health and motivation, and i have needed time to recover from it. i've been doing better mentally lately, and have taken some measures to reduce unkind interactions. i'm working on becoming less sensitive in the meantime so i can handle it better if/when it happens again.

since i've been feeling guilty about not posting jjk content, i haven't been on tumblr quite as much, but i'm still around online on both discord and instagram. mutuals can request my priv @chiidoriii on IG, and my discord is @MissingN000 -- just shoot me a message with who you are when you request! i'll still post fic updates on both new stories as well as tpg content and previews on tumblr, so please stick around :)

thank you so much for your patience with me! i love you all so much, and truly appreciate your support. love, chi <333

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billowingangel · 4 months ago

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Welcome to my Account!( ˶ˆ꒳ˆ˵ )

The name's Angel and my pronouns are she/her and I'm 20 years old

Currently brainrotting over Fallout: NV

I'm currently into: ── .✦ Hetalia ── .✦ Dr Stone ── .✦ Mob Psycho 100 ── .✦ Demon Slayer ── .✦ X-Men ── .✦ Supernatural ── .✦ Harry Potter ── .✦ Nekotan

My Other Accounts ➻❥: Archive of Our Own - Discord →billowingangel - FF.Net - Trakt - MyAnimeList - Self-Ship Blog - Spotify - Twitter (only to look at art)

Hetalian and Bored?.𖥔 ݁ ˖My Fictional Others.𖥔 ݁ ˖Gangsta Canada.𖥔 ݁ ˖Original Intro.𖥔 ݁ ˖Last Pinned.𖥔 ݁ ˖ Disclaimer.𖥔 ݁ ˖ HP Disclaimer 2

Don't hesitate to interact, message me, tag me, interact with me any and everyway possible! ♡

Mute #precarious delinquency for any posts that may contain ships or content that some may be uncomfortable with such as (incest, age gaps). I will have start tagging posts with that starting Oct 18th 2024

I believe in Ship and let Ship 🛳

All my tags should be searchable - for triggering content I do #cw thing and #thing - I also tag ship names so you can block those as well - I occasionally retweet political posts - #debbie downer hours is when I talk a bit negatively about myself - most rants I include #rant or #rants

I also suck at including my tags, I've made a lot of specific tags to try and keep this blog organized but then I'm too lazy and forget to use those tags

My Fandom Tags: Hetalia - Harry Potter - X-Men - Dr Stone - Nokotan - Supernatural

I do not support JK Rowling at all! The only way I interact with Harry Potter is through the fandom. Trans rights are basic human rights.

I am very liberal with the block button, if your curious why send me an ask ¯\_(ツ)_/ I don't have a dni :]

My OTPs: A comical number of ships! I don't really have otps but here are some of my favorite pairings!

Hetalia: Maple Tea, FrUk, CanUkr, CanLiet RoChu NedCan SwissLiech SuFin NorIce CanAme SeaLat LietPol Spamano Mob Psycho: MobRei Dr Stone: SenGen Demon Slayer: SaneGen, RenTan, GenZen, UziZen Rengokucest Harry Potter: Fremione, Nevmione, Rarry, Wolfstar, Hinny X-Men: Cherik Haikyuu: KuroYaku LevYaku, Miyacest Supernatural: Wincest, Sabriel, Destiel

I don't really have any notps or squips and if I do I just block the tags ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

#ᯓ✧ yapping hours! 💬ˎˊ˗#Intro Post #3rd intro post smh #‧₊˚ 🪄⋅HP #Nokotan 🦌#‧₊˚ hetalia ♡🌎 ༘⋆.˚ ⋆#𖥔 me core ꒱ ꒱* ➳♡#blinkies and stamps #divider by cafekitsune #source: cafekitsune #[̲̅X]⌇─➭「x-men」#navigation #need to use tags more

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1-800-m1ka · 6 months ago

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Are there Dr.Stone rpers out there?

#1 x 1 rp #rp partner wanted #discord rp #dr stone

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littlecornerofremnant · 4 months ago

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Someone in the RT discord said that the rwby crossover should've been with marvel and it sparked a fun headcanon discussion.

Things discussed:

- Yang and Nora are both worthy of Mjolnir

- Mjolnir's process of deciding who's worthy is literally just a vibe check

- Both Tony Stark and Weiss are extremely smart, rich, and snarky. They'd probably get along.

- Since Nora is worthy, she and Thor swap weapons.

- I thought it'd be funny if Thor got surprised by the weight of Magnhild.

- Ruby zipping around Tony's lab and fangirling over...well everything.

- She asks Tony ALOT of questions regarding weaponry and electronics and he does answer but some of his terminology is a bit too technical for Ruby and Weiss just ends up join the conversation by translating the more difficult terms.

- Tony would modify Yang's arm, maybe add Jarvis to it lol. I feel like Yang would enjoy the mods, not so much the AI constantly talking to her.

- "Hey Jarvis, how do you pick up cat girls?"

- Ruby and Spider Man would get along very well.

- Jarvis reminds Ruby of Penny.

- Dr. Strange would get along with Ozpin.

- Something came up about the infinity stones against salem but I dont remember exactly.

- Bucky vs Yang, I had faith in Yang but most said Bucky would win.

#rwby #yang xiao long #weiss schnee #ruby rose #nora valkyrie #rwby crossover #rwby au #rt discord shenanigans #niro posts #i forgot this was in my drafts #i meant to post this months ago #rwby marvel #rwby marvel crossover #marvel #ozpin #penny polendina #blake belladonna

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earthnashes · 1 year ago

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MORE GARGYOLES AU BAYBEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

I'm holding watch parties on my community discord for the Gargoyles; we're still on Season 1 but even then it's really helping give me some contextual clues I need for building the AU into something more sustainable. I'm super excited to get into Season 2; we'll be finishing off this season next Thursday before we continue on! :)

But ye! For this drawing; an experiment that went a little outta hand, but I'm glad it did. I really like the look of it; giving it some level of polish without resorting to coloring. I've always liked this sort of effect but rarely do I ever do it myself, but I think I'll have to do it more because it was far less time consuming to do! :>

So ye! More lore and brick work is being laid out for the AU, and once again I've written a short story to go along with the art!

For those of you who'd rather skip though, I placed it under the "Keep Reading" line, and for context for everyone here are some AU notes along with a TL;DR summary of what's happening here:

-AU explores the concept of "what if Demona was set onto the path of Redemption?"

-TL;DR for this image: Takes place a few nights after this. Demona confronts Elisa after her talk with Angela. To everyone's surprise it doesn't go south.

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By all accounts Elisa thinks she should've expected this.

Especially with the life she's chosen for herself: top-rate detective with the highest arrest rate and cases solved on the force. In direct contact with Gargoyles-- literal living legends-- on a daily basis and what that typically entails, from revenge plots to sudden trips through the very fabrics of time. Enemies from all and every side, from supernatural to plain old human to the not-so-human and zealous occult.

And traveling Central Park alone in the dead of night? By all accounts, she should’ve expected this. Yet she still wasn’t prepared for the ambush.

One second she's halfway through the tunnel under the bridge. The next? Shoved face-first into grimy, soggy stone.

The taste of iron is sharp on her tongue as her teeth cut painfully into her lip on impact. It distracts her just enough before she finally zeroes in on the claws closed tight around the nape of her neck, another set digging hard into the leather of her jacket at her pinned wrists, easily piercing the material and biting into skin. She barely has time to gather her bearings before a familiar voice is hissing hot against her ear.

"You are not as clever as you think, detective."

Elisa's heart nearly beats out of her ribcage. "Demona," she breathes, alarmed but by no means surprised. It's been months since the last attempt the she-demon's made against her. Once again, Elisa curses allowing her guard to fall; she should've known it was only a matter of time before Demona struck. No matter how long this sudden bout of tremulous peace has gone.

"What do you want."

"That's exactly what I want to know," Demona drawls, pushing Elisa further into the rough stone. There's a seething sneer in her voice. " What are your intentions with Angela?"

Elisa pauses, her unease giving way to her confusion.

"What?"

Demona responds by gripping tighter, the tell-tale rumble of a growl behind her words. "You know damned well what I mean. It's no coincidence Angela has come to me so freely. Not if it meant lowering my guard; you're up to something." The gargoyle shoves Elisa none-too-gently against the stone again, her threat stark and clear. "And I don't take kindly to the thought anyone using my daughter like she's some sort of plaything--"

"--I'd never--" Elisa starts, offended, but she barely gets a word in before she's cut off with her own agonized grunt. Demona's bodily grinding her into the wall, the rough scrape of stone chafing at the skin of her cheek. She can barely breath with how hard the gargoyle pins her, straining for breath as Demona snarls at her, long teeth clacking dangerously close to her eye.

"Liar!" She barks, and Elisa hears how her tail cuts through the air as it lashes. "It's all you humans are ever good for! Weave empty words into pretty things, only to strike when your back is turned. Angela told me herself what you said, and your words ring hollow. You and I both know you don't believe any of it. What's your game?"

"So Goliath is right, then?" Elisa huffs in lieu of an answer, stilling herself and going mostly limp in Demona's grasp. Her common sense screams at her to struggle, to find an opening and break free... but her gut tells her stay put. Her father always told her to listen to her gut when it spoke, and it's never steered her wrong before. So she breathes in as much as she dares and forces each of her muscles to relax, to appear as little a threat as possible in her position.

Not too hard to do considering the circumstances, but it takes several breaths for her heart to stop trying to burst from her chest. Nor does it really erase the glower overtaking her face.

"Is that it? Angela shouldn't be anywhere near you. Shouldn't be allowed to choose for herself and that it was a mistake to even try to talk to you?"

"By the moon we glide under, I despise you, detective!" Demona hisses, and Elisa doesn't need to see her to know her eyes have begun glowing hot red. "I'm no fool; you view me a monster. You have absolutely nothing to gain from encouraging her to see me. Nothing. So why? What do you want with her?"

"Is it really so hard to believe I care for Angela?"

"Yes." Yet there is some degree of hesitance in Demona's voice when she says it, something Elisa nearly doesn't catch. As if the she-demon almost believes her own answer, but not entirely. There's enough evidence with Elisa aiding her old Clan-- never truly for her own gain -- that brings question to her conviction. "Humans don't do anything unless they gain something in return. You are either after her, my life, or something else." Demona allows Elisa's arm free to rake her claws against the stone of the bridge. It gives way easily as if nothing but dirt, leaving deep divots in a clear display of a threat. "Do not make me ask again."

"Then you're right," Elisa replies easily-- or as easily as her position allows-- and of all the responses she could've gotten Demona doesn't expect that. It's clear in how much she loosens her hold on Elisa in apparent surprise, no longer choking her so much as simply holding her in place now. Elisa's instincts flair then; demand she elbows the she-demon in the belly and get distance, yet even still her gut urges her: stay put.

"I do have something to gain. Angela's happiness."

Elisa doesn’t expect her words to have any real effect. Readies herself for Demona to snap at her again. Force her against the unforgiving stone, have her taste her own blood again, maybe even work up the nerve to inflict the bodily harm she always threatens. This is probably the closest she's gotten in a long while.

But Demona does… nothing. Simply a presence behind her. One simmering with barely held anger and confusion and the weight of her own paranoia. But still as stone—listening-- all the same.

Stay put.

Elisa takes in a shaky breath.

"She's miserable, you know. When the clan speaks ill of you," She breathes quietly, surprising herself with the gentleness in her own voice. "Goliath explicitly forbids her from ever trying to talk to you. He thinks you're a lost cause." It’s not hard to think of Goliath’s demeanor in those moments; regret, sadness, guilt, traces of betrayal and anger whenever he speaks of his ex. He's long since given up on reaching out to Demona.

"And maybe I did too, once. But now, I--"

The look on Demona's face when realizing who Angela was flashes through her memory. The shock, quickly replaced with unbridled joy and hope. Something Elisa was unsure Demona could feel up until that very moment.

"--you could've left us to die by Thailog's hand. You could've ended all of humanity with just a press of a button. But you didn't."

Elisa doesn't mention the sudden lack of schemes against all of mankind. She doesn't mention the abrupt disinterest in attacking the Clan. She doesn't say anything about how--even after all this time, even now-- she is still alive, when Demona has had ample chances to rid herself of her. Elisa is no slouch: she's proud enough to admit she's held her own against Demona a fair number of times. But there were times where only her keen eye and years of training caught the very slight hesitance from Demona when she was all but helpless.

"I don't think you're a lost cause," Elisa says unwaveringly. Nothing in her voice gives way to any underlying uncertainty she has. To the questions she burns to ask—why? What changed? -- but won’t. Not yet. "I have my reservations. But I don't think it's anyone's place to make that decision for Angela. Nor do I think it's fair to rob you of the chance to prove to her you're more than your past."

Elisa hesitates for just a second before she says clearly into the silence of the night, compelled by Demona's uncharacteristic show of restraint: "...I-I don’t think you’re a monster."

I never thought you to be.

The thought comes unbidden, and it catches her off guard at how honest it is. She doesn’t put it to words, only remaining in place and holding steady. Waiting.

Demona still doesn't say anything. Doesn't really do anything at first, but there's a very clear shift in the air, subtle as it may be. Elisa's instincts are no longer in overdrive, no longer in high alert of danger. Somehow --even in Demona's sharp grasp-- there is no more danger to be aware of.

It's in the way the gargoyle's silence turns contemplative and not a raging storm cloud. In how she suddenly doesn't dig so hard in Elisa's jacket, tucking the tips of her claws safely against the leather and not into delicate skin. The intent is no longer there.

Demona mutters something to herself, low enough for Elisa not to hear what she says, but even with her keen senses it still manages to surprise the detective when the gargoyle simply... moves away.

It's by no means gentle. She abruptly drops the human without any sort of care, allowing her to crumple under her own weight when she finally touches ground after several minutes being held aloft. But the principle still stands.

Demona let her go.

"…I don't believe you," She grunts in a voice filled with scorn, but the usual bite is missing. Elisa allows herself a moment to rub at the scratches and welts those wicked claws left behind. She clears her throat before she chances a glance at the gargoyle and finds her back turned to her.

"I'm not asking you to," Elisa says softly. She eyes the gargoyle warily. "And I still don't trust you. But I do trust Angela. She saw something worth her time in you; the least I can do is support her... and be there if it blows up in her face."

When Elisa finds the energy to stand, she musters up a warning glare at Demona, stance cautious but no less filled with promise. "Don't make me regret it."

The threat behind it is barely veiled, and it must be the right thing to say, because Demona only barely casts a glance her way. Her eyes are hard to read. And despite it, Elisa can see the smallest hint of something in them when forest green sweeps over her, foot to face, the faintest upturn to the corner of her mouth.

"Then we are on the same page."

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For some extra context:

-Demona is referring to how Elisa told Angela that she does actually believe Demona isn't pure evil, or a threat to her. Elisa doesn't trust Demona at all, but she recognizes that something has shifted in the gargoyle, and she knows she would never hurt Angela, so she sets aside her own doubts and encourages Angela to seek her mother out. I have plans to draw and write this interaction in the future so we have more context in this regard!

-Elisa strikes me as the type to be able to see things in varying shades of gray: Goliath isn't wrong in his reluctance to allow Angela near Demona, but she honestly doesn't think her heartless or a completely lost cause. Especially after she learns some of Demona's past

-Demona would never admit this, but she does actually respect Elisa. Much to her chagrin. Unlike most humans whom she barely bats an eye toward, she sees Elisa as her equal in prowess and intelligence, and she hates that she does, but she'd be a fool if she ignored it.

The further I get into the show I'll expand on this idea, but that's it for now. :)

#gargoyles #demona #elisa maza #my art #my stuff #au #headcanon #disney

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peterswonderland · 9 months ago

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Introduction

By now, we all have our opinions of The Tortured Poets Department: The Anthology. It has received mixed reviews from critics to fans alike.

In the Gaylor community, many have dubbed it her “straightest album,” which I am inclined to agree with. BUT.

If you do not like Gaylor or Swiftgron content, feel free to block and/or keep scrolling!

I’ve seen and read theories for years. In this post I will be referencing the Swiftgron Masterpost. I’m also an avid listener of the What I Will Say podcast. (No one affiliated with the podcast is involved with this post, and for all I know might disagree with it entirely. However, I will be referencing the masterpost at points, and it is only fair to give credit where credit is due.)

This is celebrity gossip, and everything is alleged. I do not know Taylor or Dianna. This is alleged (don't sue me, tysm!)

Peter is…Dianna?

Halfway through my first listen of “Peter,” I was fully convinced this song was about Dianna. That Peter was Dianna.

First, I will go through the lyrics that most pointedly seem Dianna-coded to me.

Forgive me, Peter My lost fearless leader In closets like cedar Preserved from when we were just kids Is it somethin' I did?

Taylor references closets in “seven” on folklore:

And I've been meaning to tell you I think your house is haunted Your dad is always mad and that must be why And I think you should come live with Me and we can be pirates Then you won't have to cry Or hide in the closet

Cedar closets are used as a "safe haven" to put valuable items in. The closet has preserved everything from when Taylor and the muse were "just kids" (likely meaning their early twenties.) Shoutout to Kristin in the WIWS Discord for mentioning this!

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Another interpretation I found on Genius mentioned that the closet line in “Peter” could also be a reference to another fantasy story, The Chronicles of Narnia, wherein stepping into a closet revealed a new fantasy world. This fantasy narrative ties in with “Peter”/Peter Pan and “Wonderland”/Alice in Wonderland, which we’ll get to in a second.

The line “And I think you should come live with/Me and we can be pirates” can also be connected to Peter Pan. Peter Pan and the Lost Boys often have to fight off Captain Hook and his pirates. There are also theories that pirates/Captain Hook are old Lost Boys. TL/DR: Old lost boys are either killed by Peter Pan or can choose to become Lost Boys…at least by these fans’ interpretations. A weak link I know, but still an interesting one.

“We can be pirates” because you’ve been forced to grow up too quickly…? Hm.

Further connecting “seven” to “Peter” is the idea of being just kids, although in “seven” it seems to be more literal, while in “Peter” she might be referring to when she and Dianna actually met: Taylor was ~20 years old, and Dianna was ~24.

From “Peter”:

Are you still a mind reader? A natural scene stealer? I've heard great things, Peter But life was always easier on you Than it was on me

Dianna is stunning, and has often been referred to as a scene stealer.

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“When we cast Dianna as Quinn, she ruined the part for me,” Murphy says. “She was supposed to be the Cybill Shepherd, Last Picture Show cunt, so to speak, but she humanized it. She can cry at the drop of a hat. So now her character has a conscience, a soul and great vulnerability.” Ryan Murphy, Rolling Stone. Credit

Credit (Shoutout to ellie from the WIWS Discord server for bringing the TCA nominations for "Female Scene Stealer" to my attention!)

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