#fen writing

[beekissies]

IRRADIATE. (lrtr)

✎... He’s known them long enough to know they would’ve agreed regardless — that they would put his sword up to their throat themself if he asked them to.

i finished it ....!!!!! i eventually Did just call it radiation in the end ^_^ i had a lot of fun writing this so im glad to have somewhere to put it now . the entire thing utc! also if you're seeing this now i wanted to make it look nice...... ignore me

cws: self harm, blood, death, kind of unhealthy ideas about love ...

wc: 1,458

ACUTE RADIATION SICKNESS IS A COLLECTION OF HEALTH EFFECTS THAT ARE CAUSED BY BEING EXPOSED TO HIGH AMOUNTS OF IONIZING RADIATION IN A SHORT PERIOD OF TIME.

When Arthur is lucid again, he finds himself in the mall, twirling his sword deeper into the hole he’s begun to drill into the floor. 

The clock on the banged-up PC near to him reads midnight, January 1st, 1999. He can hear the drone whirring in the food court, Amir playing away at his arcade games, Lettie’s rats scuttling around in the hall. Everything is as it should be. 

But Arthur’s mind is stuck in the past — the future? — still hung up on the sight of Loren’s blood on the glass, the tang of his blood in his mouth, the lingering weight of their consciousness sidled up next to his own as they walked him out of the reactor. A devotion he doesn’t deserve. A gentleness so sweet it makes him ache.

A set of footsteps come to a stop in front of him. Arthur is torn between wanting to meet their gaze and being wholly unable to.

“Hey,” Loren says, offering him a wan smile.

“Hey, yourself,” he says in reply. Idly, his gaze catches on the shallow curve of their smile, and he thinks again of the reactor, the way they looked at him, spoke to him. 

For a moment, they just stand there in silence. His sword twirls against the floor. Their metal claw taps incessantly against their thigh.

“Happy birthday, by the way,” Arthur says, eventually.

Their eyes widen a fraction, and their lips split into a sharp, toothy grin, canines catching on their lower lip. “You remembered?”

He returns their smile, but can’t look them directly in the eye. “Course I did. That’s what friends do, isn’t it?”

“Friends,” they echo, as if gauging how the word feels in their mouth. It leaves a bitter taste in his. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

Arthur swallows down the lump in his throat, and stifles his meager hope with it, colder still than the new year chill.

SYMPTOMS CAN START WITHIN AN HOUR OF EXPOSURE, AND CAN LAST FOR SEVERAL MONTHS.

Winter melts into spring. Lettie scolds Loren for not changing the bandages on their hand — dios mío, you’re just like a child — and the group of them finally manage to sit together for that game of Fables and Frontiers that Amir’s been wanting to play. 

Loren comes back to the mall smelling of a dizzying mix of flowers and gunpowder. They set their pistol down on a table and sit next to him, close enough that Arthur can see the moles that dot their face — on their temple, the bridge of their nose, their cupid’s bow. 

He rubs a bit of dirt off their cheek with his thumb. An unconscious action, as natural as the spin of his sword against the floor. He tries not to think of the way they lean into his touch, tries not to cup their face just a little longer.

A moment passes, and they pull away. They turn from him, their attention stolen by something else, someone else, somewhere else. Drifter’s gotta drift, as Quincy would say — Arthur knows too well about birds in cages and dogs on leashes, so he starts tallying out all he would give to drift along with them, instead.

“Go on,” he says, a smile lifting up the corner of his lips. “You have that look on your face again. Don’t let me hold you up.”

They glance back at him, hesitant. “...Okay,” they concede. “I won’t be long. Wait for me?”

“Of course,” he replies, as if there was ever any doubt.

Their hand slips out of his — when did they do that? Why didn’t he notice? — and he watches them leave. The sunlight spilling in through the skylight hits them just right, and for a fleeting moment, the air leaves Arthur’s lungs.

THE SPEED OF SYMPTOM ONSET IS RELATED TO RADIATION EXPOSURE, WITH GREATER DOSES RESULTING IN A SHORTER DELAY IN SYMPTOM ONSET.

As the summer sun sets over the horizon, Arthur watches as Loren wipes the blood off his sword before they head back to the mall. He sits beside them, idly tapping his finger against his thigh along to whatever shitty pop song is playing over the park’s techrotted speakers. 

They sit in silence, and he just watches the way their hands move back and forth, and back and forth. In another life, this would have been romantic. And if they were anyone else anytime else, maybe they would’ve called each other lovers. 

But there’s a part of him that believes he doesn’t want to be anyone else or want anyone else but them. There’s a part of him that really quite likes them here, now, covered in blood and grime on an even bloodier and grimier bench.

Alas.

“All done,” Loren says, placing his sword back in its scabbard and putting it on his lap. They let out a soft breath, their gaze flickering over the rest of the park as the street lamps flicker on. “There’s a place like this in Duviri, you know. I think you’d like it there.”

“Yeah?” he muses. “Maybe you should take me there sometime.”

A laugh, light and short and airy. “...Maybe. If I find a way to take you with me.”

Arthur allows himself to entertain the thought, and his gaze softens as he notices Loren seemingly doing the same, too.

“Let’s take the long way back,” he says. 

They blink up at him, watching him stand and adjust the sword strapped to his back. “Okay. What for?”

He swallows down both the lump in his throat and the words he knows he’s going to regret later. “Just to make sure we shake off any patrols tailing us,” he says, a half-truth, and pragmatic enough an excuse that Loren nods in agreement. He’s known them long enough to know they would’ve agreed regardless — that they would put his sword up to their throat themself if he asked them to. Butcher and livestock, executioner and criminal. 

It scares him, sometimes. But he offers his hand to help them up and squeezes them tighter when they don’t let go. 

IN THE FOLLOWING HOURS OR WEEKS, INITIAL SYMPTOMS MAY SEEM TO IMPROVE —

Loren’s hand sits just inches away from his own on the railing. 

They’re busy watching the fireworks, their face lighting up in vibrant blues and reds and yellows. A small smile tugs the corner of their lips upwards as they turn to him and catch him staring. 

Arthur returns their smile, his gaze lingering on their eyes, their lips, then drifting downwards — their glove is wet and sticky, and leaves a red stain on the railing where their hand sits.

“...Are you okay?” they ask, their eyebrows furrowing.

“Are you?” 

“Of course I am…” they trail off, pulling their hand closer to themself. It leaves red skid marks on the metal that has his stomach churning.

— BEFORE THE DEVELOPMENT OF ADDITIONAL SYMPTOMS —

“Can… I see?” he asks.

They hem and haw. Their eyes flicker around, looking anywhere but him, even as they wordlessly offer their hand to him like a puzzle piece sliding into its place, warm and slick with blood. 

“I wish you’d stop doing this,” he mutters.

“Sorry,” they reply.

“I just want to know why you do it,” he continues.

“Sorry…” they reply.

— AFTER WHICH, EITHER DEATH

“That wasn’t an answer,” he says lightly, hoping to coax a laugh out of them. Instead, their face only seems to crumple further. “Hey, you don’t have to—”

“It’s a gift. From you,” they say eventually. They flex their hand, the wound oozing onto his palm. “It helps me remember you. And I like it, so…”

His other hand comes up to cover theirs. “It must be a really shitty gift, then,” he says. 

They laugh hollowly. “No, it’s good,” they say. “It makes me think of you.”

“I don’t want you to hurt for me,” he says with a frown. 

They smile wanly. “It doesn’t hurt. Really.”

“Even so.” His hand trails upwards to their cheek, tracing the scar cutting across their face with his thumb. He smears their own blood on them, stark red against their pale skin, and they lean into his touch. 

Somewhere else, the new year’s countdown starts in earnest. They lean closer to him, their head against his neck, his arm around their waist. He thinks of the reactor. Their consciousness sidled up next to his in his own head — the open secret sits between them, warm and tender and unignorable as an open wound. 

This time, he holds them close and doesn’t pull away.

OR RECOVERY FOLLOW.

[dellamortal]

(During The Last Gambit, if Rook romances Lucanis)

Lucanis (Spite): Pride. Feels old. Cracked. Disparate.

Lucanis: Enough, Spite. Now is not the time.

Lucanis (Spite): He. Hurt. Rook!

Solas: Your spirit companion is restless, Antivan. I suggest you corral him before you face Elgar’nan, lest he be used against you.

Lucanis: Consider yourself lucky I am not unleashing him on you. Spite is by his very nature spiteful. And spirits do not forgive easily.

Lucanis (Spite): He. Hurt. Our. Rook!

Rook: Spite, it’s okay.

Lucanis (Spite): (grumbles)

[fenrelmercar]

Woobification of Solas.

This is a fandom critical post. Proceed at your own risk.

Let me start this piece off by saying that this post is not meant to target a specific demographic of the fandom. If you feel targeted, that’s on you. 

In this essay, I want to talk about the infantilization, woobification, or just good plain headcanoning the bad out of Solas. Mostly it comes down to a few of the most regurgitated lines of thinking: he is a spirit of wisdom despite everything he does or has done and he is just confused and perverted from his natural state, Solas is his true self while Fen’Harel or The Dread Wolf are just select masks he wears. The sentiment is so strong that at points it comes down to disregarding or ‘uncanoning’ the entire storyline of The Veilguard because in the minds of individuals that follow this school of thought it does injustice to the character of Solas they have created in their minds. In their minds, it is bad writing to show Solas being a prideful, treacherous liar. 

Because the man, who led rebellion for centuries using dubious means, using creatures he claims to respect as if they are expandable, killing his closest confidant because he dared to oppose him outright somehow is a paragon of virtue that is just bent out of shape by his misguided loyalty. All the atrocities he has committed through thousands of years he had a physical form comes down to him being manipulated and emotionally abused by his former closest friend Mythal and later by grief and anger of losing her. Slapping the label of emotional distress and trauma on a perpetrator of … well, quite literally, war crimes, does make them more palatable, but it does not mean it should be seen as a normal practice. The acts Solas commits during the war with Titans, his rebellion against the Evanuris, and later on in current day Thedas are being construed as desperate actions of a broken man, wisdom twisted from his purpose and left to fend for himself, despite his self-induced isolation. So let me ask you this: how many acts of desperation does it take to realize that they are becoming choices? 

Yes, he was manipulated through their shared emotional bonds by Mythal. Yes, he was coerced to leave his spirit form in favor of a physical body. Then Mythal used his wisdom as a weapon, warping him against his own beliefs, making him participate in the war in ways he did not wish to. Yes, he was pushed by Evanuris’ cruelty to rebel and then lost what he perceived as his only friend to their arrogant ways and later had to live through her death by their hands. He was broken to the point he could not see a way out and doomed the entire way of Elven existence just to win the fight against the cruel and the unjust. Yes, he is a man who lost his people and his version of the world due to his own actions. He is a traumatized, sad, lonely man, who has predetermined himself to the path from which he cannot see a way back. And yet, many of the steps he took along the way cannot be downplayed as acts of a spirit of Wisdom that was bent out of shape by grief and desperation. Destroying the Titans and leaving their children orphaned is seen as an act of devotion and unconditional love towards his manipulator, Mythal. But as the world’s best detective, Jake Peralta has once said: “Cool motive. Still a murder.”

And now we arrive at the most beloved sentiment. Solas is his true self. Fen’Harel is just a mask. Oh, boy.

Everyone says that they hate one-dimensional characters until they are served a multifaceted one on the platter. Then they get to declawing and defanging them, ripping their personality apart into this and that, robbing them of parts of them that make them whole, and when that is not enough, they take on dulling off any edges they might find too abrasive. Assassination of the character is just the beginning; the remains have to be sanitized and scrubbed off any wrongdoing whatsoever, so supporting them doesn’t seem like a moral failing on fandom’s part. 

Cutting Solas and Fen’Harel apart as if they are some conjoined twins, where Fen’Harel is the evil one, is stripping Solas of things that are inherent parts of his character for the sake of feeling more comfortable with his actions. Solas is kind, caring, and wise. Fen’Harel is prideful, scheming, and treacherous. These two sides of him are now separated by their representation in the Inquisition and Veilguard. In Inquisition, he is Solas - a thoughtful mage obsessed with dreams, a soft-spoken man keen on sharing his knowledge. Except for the part where he doesn’t see current Thedosians as real people. Where everyone is tranquil in his eyes and thus, lesser. People, who he is willing to sacrifice to achieve his goals. The thoughtful things he said by the end of the road to the Inquisitor he supposedly cared for:

“I will do what I must, but there is no benefit in allowing harm to come to innocents before it's necessary.”

“I will save the Elven people, even if it means this world must die.”

“As this world burned in the raw chaos, I would have restored the world of my time... the world of the elves.”

And then he mutilated them. Yes, he did it to save their life. But the Inquisitor had no choice in the matter. What if my Inquisitor would have rather died than lost their arm? Doesn’t matter, because our thoughtful, kind apostate knows better. A kind apostate who sacrificed his world to avenge Mythal, but then by the time of the Inquisition killed her all over again. For power, of all things. And then he stripped the dignity of the one who carried what remained of Mythal through ages by depicting her as an elf, proving once again that he does not see current Thedosians, humans, as real. 

The most egregious crime of Solas’ portrayal in Veilguard seems to be painting him as a liar. Because in the Inquisition he didn’t lie. He just avoided telling the truth. He shaded it in a comfortable tale that no one would question. He spun the narrative. Solas made himself appear as an apostate mage who has gained all his knowledge from the Fade. He crumbled just enough truth without revealing his hand. Or simply said he was lying by omission. Luckily to him, no one would ever ask a random mage if, by chance, they are the infamous Fen’Harel, so he doesn’t need to lie outright. 

And what did he do in Veilguard while not being his true self and wearing that mask of Fen’Harel, that degree of separation from his true, kind self and the trickster god? He spun the narrative. He said just enough truth to be believed. He was deceitful. Solas can be caught saying one outright lie—“I abhor blood magic.” Oh, wait. He can be caught lying exactly one time in Inquisition too—if you confront him about missing court intrigue. So much for a completely different man in Veilguard. 

Fen’Harel as a mask is such a beloved statement that it disregards thousands of years of his life. “I was Solas first. Fen'harel came later, an insult I took as a badge of pride.” A badge of pride Felassan used to flock followers to his side. Badge of pride he wore all through his rebellion. The one he tried to reclaim once meeting Dalish of the current day Thedas. One he used to amass following during the events of Trespasser. How many millennia can a person willingly wear a mask and not have it be a part of who they are?

And then we end up here, where somehow the portrayal of Solas in certain parts of fandom becomes an eerily similar story to that of Portrait of Dorian Grey. We have this beautiful, virtuous man, who’s telling you the most fascinating stories of the Fade, lulling you with his kind voice and beautiful eyes. One who was manipulated, traumatized, desperate, and pushed to act against his good nature. One who would tear down the Veil to restore what was lost and make the world right again. An idealist, working towards his goal. Damned be the sacrifices it requires. Because being hurt in some minds absolves people of guilt. Some agree with his goals and damn his ugly side to the attic. The one who manipulated, one who deceived and killed. One who has the blood of countless lives on his hands. One has to exist for the other to reach that goal. One who is just as much part of his true self as the other. 

Solas is Fen’Harel. Fen’Harel is Solas. One could not exist without the other. And to love someone truly, we must accept the good, the bad, and the ugly. Because to be loved is to be seen fully. Loving a villain is not a moral failing. And yes, he is a villain. Doing something horrible for the sake of something good is still, at the core, doing something horrible. 

Love him because of the awful things he did and in spite of them.

[bloggerspam]

A Christmas Carol AU

Inspired by a prompt found in the @haunting-heroes-creative-games :) (i.e. back on my shit again)

When a 15 year old Jason, pissed at Bruce for taking Robin away from him, finds his birth certificate he realizes Catherine Todd is not his real mother.

Just as he resolves to go out and search for his birth mother, Jason finds himself accosted by three ghosts in his room, talking about A Christmas Carol of all things.

===

"So, what? We're gonna Christmas Carol him?"

Dan scoffs, crossing his bulky arms with an unimpressed look. "We hated that movie."

"I didn't." Dani chirps, disturbingly cheery, "I didn't see it!"

"We hate Christmas," Danny corrects, "But the movie was alright, and the logic is sound."

"I don't hate Christmas," Dani once again interjects cheerily, "I've never participated!"

"Sound my ass," Dan growls over her, throwing his hands up. "We don't even know this guy!"

"Minor detail." Danny insists, "Tuck can look him up."

"He's a fucking Bat, Danny." Dan scrunches up his face, pinching the bridge of his nose just like Vlad does when he's disgruntled with any of Dad's shenanigans.

"He's a Robin, actually." Dani pipes in, "And he's just a kid. How hard is it gonna be to pretend to be this kid's Ghosts?"

"You're a kid," Dan reminds her, crossing his arms, "And you didn't believe me when I told you sticking a fork in the outlet would shock you."

"I believed you," Dani sniffs haughtily, crossing her arms and pointing her nose up with a snooty voice, "The warning simply did not deter me from doing it anyway."

"We don't have to convince him we're his Ghosts, or even that we knew him before," Danny reasons, needling, "We just have to convince him that we're…"

He hums, pointing at Dani. "Past."

He points at himself, "Present."

He points at Dan, "Future."

Dani does a little cheer, arms up and twirling into the air before landing with her legs over Dan's shoulders, hands and head settling atop Dan's fiery, but harmless, hair. It flickers, before going limp into long white strands that Dani messes up by gently scrunching up the strands and running her fingers through them.

Dan lets her, huffing and looking weirdly like a downtrodden, wet cat. "Why am I future?"

"Because." Danny doesn't continue, because he knows it makes Dan annoyed. True to form, his scowl gets worse, like sucking on a lemon. They all know why anyway.

Dani grins, triumphant and knowing, letting her voice go real deep, "The future," she intones into Dan's hair, "is here."

"The future is now," Danny corrects her, but doesn't lose his smile, floating up to tuck a strand of her hair back behind her ear.

"The future is already here," Dan mumbles his correction, or is it a follow-up? "It's just not evenly distributed."

"How about you distribute some of those muscles, Gibson," Danny sighs, shaking his head "Waiting for puberty is such a drag, and we both know you didn't get the mass from Vlad's side of the family."

Dan makes a moue of disgust, but it serves him right. The consequences of his own actions, and whatnot. He looks up at Dani, who simply shrugs. "I think you'll do great." She leans down to give him two pats on the arm.

"So how's acting out A Christmas Carol gonna help us stop this Jason guy from blowing up?" Dani fiddles with Dan's hair, tongue poking out as she attempts a braid, "Will he even see us? Ghosts in this dimension taste funny."

"He'll be able to see us, it's magically rich enough for some ghosts to maintain a semblance of themselves," Danny explains for the third time. Dani and Dan hum at different pitches, and even though Danny is the common denominator he kind of hates that Vlad has more of a lasting impression on them. "The ectoplasm here is scarce and mostly corrupted, though, so it's rare."

"So there's lotsa bad ghosts here?" Dani eyes the messy braid she's made, proud, even as Dan's silky hair immediately causes it to fall apart, "Or 'mentally unsound' or whatever Frostbite called it."

"No," Dan grumbles, annoyed and indulging all at once, "Corruption begets ecto-rot, but the scarcity means they're not strong enough to actually retain their sense of self enough to rot."

"Shades," Danny explains when Dani looks even more confused, "There's lots of shades."

"Is this one of the Olympian dimensions?" Dani groans, flopping over Dan's shoulder as he sits down on the sofa, "I love Pandora and all, but if I see Zeus again I'm gonna lose it."

"It's one of the hero dimensions," Danny hums, taking over braiding Dan's hair the way Jazz made him when they were little, "There's a couple of Amazons walking about, but on the whole no Olympians."

"I don't know why he didn't just dump me in a Norse dimension." Dan leans back and closes his eyes to their ministrations. "Especially with my current occupation."

The three of them are sitting in Dan's apartment, a large loft studio located somewhere in the UK of the aforementioned hero-dimension. Alber-something, Danny can't remember. Doesn't need to, it being a different dimension from his anyway.

Dan doesn't have a lot of things: a sofa and TV, a bed in the corner, a decent but small kitchen. They're still trying to figure out decorations, but Dan on the whole is a minimalist so it's been slow going.

He's working as a bartender these nights, whiling away his odd existence now that his form has stabilized.

And wasn't that a trip? Learning that hey, adult lightning halfas shouldn't really be mixed with teenage ice halfas, actually!

Apparently, ectoplasm can become corrupted if you try to combine incompatible sources.

Apparently, side effects include (but are not limited to) unmitigated violence and a devastating need for vengeance.

Sound familiar?

"This dimension has a lot of time continuity errors," Danny reminds him, "Dropping you here gave the least amount of pushback."

"Yeah, yeah," Dan flaps a lazy hand, "Praise be the speedforce and flashpoints and whatnot."

"Plus," Dani adds softly, absent-minded as she watches Danny finish up the braid, "Lotsa heroes to help out if you relapse."

Dan heaves a slow, controlled sigh. Danny and Dani both pretend they don't notice.

"Is it bad?" Dan doesn't open his eyes, his voice is so low Danny can only hear him by virtue of his ghost powers, "Like me levels bad?"

"No." Danny shakes his head, leaning into his older self, his older brother of sorts, "He decapitated eight crime lords, killed a couple of assassins, maybe an innocent or two depending on your definition of things."

"Past tense?" Dan scrunches his nose. They all hate how confusing Time Shenanigans are.

"He's living as Red Hood, right this very moment."

"Red Hood?" Dani questions, "That his hero name?"

"Crime lord alias." Danny corrects her, "But he's more of a vigilante these days. Has a bat on his chest and everything."

"But it's bad enough to warrant a trip to the past." Dan points out, "Bad enough for us to try and persuade him. Does he relapse?"

"Not…exactly." Danny scrunches his face, not wanting to explain Clockwork's ambiguity.

Dani floats to spread over Danny and Dan's laps, sprawling out and purring like a cat. Self-soothing, though it's more for their benefit than hers.

"Like Dani said, there’re lots of heroes here, and he doesn't have powers." Danny continues, petting at Dani's soft hair, "The world doesn't end. He doesn't have the means to, even with the ecto-rot."

Danny pauses, and chooses his words deliberately and carefully. "And deep down, Jason Todd is a hero through and through. Relapse would be…difficult. His Obsession is similar to yours."

Dan lets that sit for a moment, but nods, Danny moving a little with the motion. The tension slowly bleeds out as they wait like that, enjoying each other's company.

"If the world doesn't end," Dani whispers, "Why is Clockwork sending all of us?"

Danny thinks on that, on his meeting with Clockwork. The Ancient's voice when he explained what would happen.

He thinks about Jason Todd, about Bruce Wayne, and Catherine, and Sheila. He thinks about Batman, and Robin.

He thinks about Dick Grayson and Tim Drake, about Damian Al Ghul, about Cassandra Cain, and all of Jason's Outlaws.

He thinks about a tattered uniform that stays up in a glass case for a long, long time.

Most of all, he thinks about Dan.

He thinks about regrets and one bad day away.

And then he stops thinking about it, because sometimes the past is the past, and other times, it's the future that never happens that haunts you instead.

"You know, Dani." He settles on, "I'm not sure. He probably has his reasons."

Dan leans heavier onto him, and they lean together like that, with Dani in their laps.

Ghosts of decisions made, unmade, and never to be.

Follow the story on AO3 here!

[spacedace]

Still thinking about the Social Worker Jazz concept that @gilbirda posted about and it's slowly turning into a full Anger Management fic send help

-

Jason at length - much longer than it really should have taken really - set the resume down.

The new Social Worker’s resume. Because she was there, in his office, trying to convince him to hire her as a member of his criminal organization.

Crime Alley’s new social worker. A bright eyed Midwestern transplant from some tiny speck of a place that only qualified as a city because there was nothing bigger in a hundred miles in any direction to claim otherwise. The new social worker who had a Psy D. and three masters degrees and who had graduated Valedictorian. The one that had high paying private gigs lined up all over the country with the offering companies fighting over her.

The one who had, apparently, decided to take a shit job in Gotham’s shoddy social services department instead. The one that got kicked to Crime Alley - which was its own division despite technically being a small neighborhood in the grand scheme of things - within her first month. Supposedly for the sole purpose of scaring her off or getting her killed for all the questions she was asking and secret dealings she was sticking her nose into.

That social worker.

“I’m gonna need you to run this by me again.” Jason said, never so grateful for the voice modulator in his helmet as he was in that moment. It stripped out the bewilderment that had bled through into his words and made him sound stoic instead.

“I’d like to work for you.” The social worker - one Dr. Jasmine Nightingale - repeated primly. Back straight, clothes neat - if skewing more on the librarian side of professional - expression confident and hopeful. Completely and utterly oblivious of how fucking insane she sounded. “I was told that you’re the person in charge of Crime Alley.”

He resisted the urge to scrub at his face. It’d just look weird with his helmet on and not do anything to actually settle him in that moment anyway. “I understood that part.”

“Look, Doc,” She earned a doctorate and she was crazy enough to waltz into the office of one of Gotham’s most powerful Crime Lords, he’d be respectful about using her proper title at least, even if he suspected she was ten pounds of crazy in a five pound bag. “You’re going to have to tell me why. I was under the impression the only reason you ended up dumped on our end of the city ws because you wouldn’t play ball. But now you want to sign up for my crew?”

Nightingale frowned a little at that.

“Is that what people are saying?”

“What else are they gonna say?” Jason answered, leaning back in his seat, “Head of the department only dumps Crime Alley on folks he don’t like. And everyone knows he doesn’t like anyone that can’t or won’t play his game by his rules.”

“Alright, well. I’ll give you that.” Nightingale conceded, “Payne doesn’t like me. The feeling’s mutual. But for the record,” She added giving him a wry smile, as if sharing wry smiles with Red Hood was just something people did, “I asked to be assigned to the Park Row and Bowery neighborhoods.”

“You wanted to work here.”

“Yes.”

“Bullshit.”

Nightingale laughed. It was a bright sound. Not especially clear or pretty, but warm and welcoming in a way that carefully calculated giggles or overdone guffaws couldn’t be. Something with real and honest amusement in it, that encouraged those nearby to laugh along. Not the kind of involuntary, nervous chuckling people tended to slip into when they thought they had pissed someone that scared them off.

She just wasn’t intimidated by him at all, was she?

Behind his helmet, Jason found himself smiling. Just a bit.

“I’m serious.” She assured, blue-green eyes meeting the dark stare of his helmet without a moment of hesitation. He watched as she brushed a lock of her bright red hair behind her ear and out of the way. She’d woven it all into a practical, neat braid but a few sly pieces had snuck out to bounce around her. Gilding her quiet professionalism with a playful charm that worked well with her academia but make it cottagecore kindergarten teacher aesthetic.

“I’ll admit, Gotham wasn’t part of my plan when I first graduated. Time and choices take you funny places sometimes.” She plucked an invisible bit of lint off her soft blue cardigan, not nervous but absent as her gaze went distant for a moment. Thinking back on the events that had led her to his fine city. In a blink, those sharp eyes were back to focusing entirely on him. “But Gotham is where I am now, and I want to help.”

She looked at him, a serious, determined expression settling easily on her face. “The city as a whole has so much chaos and crime breaking out all the time.” No censure or horror in her voice, just a neutral fact to be observed. “But where the rest of the city has millions of dollars poured into it by various foundations or charities run by the Waynes, Park Row is largely ignored.”

Jason watched as steeliness sharpened her gaze, the blue-green shifting from the shine of a bird’s wing to the warning hue of something poisonous and deadly. “No one deserves that. No one.” Her chin tilted up, proud but not imperious. “So yes, I want to work here. There are people in Park Row and the Bowery who need help and I refuse to let any of them feel like they are going to be ignored.”

Jason considered her.

Really looked at her. Pealing back his initial off handed impression of her as some clueless transplant in over her head with no idea of what she was doing or what she was poking her nose into to find the real woman beneath. Her confident poise, her clear unshakable belief, her unflinching willingness to look danger in the eye and not blink. The tense curve of her frown, the lines of pain at the corners of her eyes, the simmering anger beneath it all. There was an edge to her, too. Something sharp and dangerously well hidden by the cardigan and folksy charm of her accent.

It was personal for the woman before him, Jason realized. Maybe not Crime Alley specifically, but something about the whole situation. The treatment the neighborhood and its residents received from the city at large, from those even beyond it.

Crime Alley wasn’t a place that received much in the way of charitable thought. The average joe with their house in Somerset and job at some corporate shithole hating every second of their life but thinking at least I don’t live in Crime Alley. Those asshole hoity-toites in city hall throwing money around equally between shit that’d get them re-elected and their off-shore slush funds in the Caymens doing their damn level best to pretend the black mark on the other end of the city just didn’t exist. Bruce, flooding the entire city with charitable programs and carefully constructed infrastructures shying away from the manifested grief and trauma that was the place he watched his parents get murdered.

For the most part no one from outside of the Alley gave a shit about the Alley other than as a place to avoid at all costs. And most of the time those natives that manages to claw their way out into better and brighter lives didn’t ever turn to glance back. Orpheus could have learned a thing or to from an ex-Alley Kid who managed to eek out a steady 9-to-5 and move to Burnley.

And something about that seemed to piss Dr. Jasmine Nightingale Psy. D right the fuck off.

He could see why Bill said he liked her enough to let her in.

“Alright.” He said, tilting his head, watching the woman seated across from him carefully, “Still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here. Why you’re trying to get on my payroll.”

“I’m not trying to get on your payroll.” She said, some of the glinting edge softening, but the steel remaining. Strong and unyielding. “I’m trying to get into your community outreach program.”

Jason thanked god and all the saints once again for the gift of his helmet. That baby had saved his ass more times than he could count both by keeping his head in one piece and keeping his stupefied expressions wrapped up and hidden from view. Dr. Nightingale was one hell of a woman to make him have to rely on that fact twice in one conversation.

“Wasn’t aware that was something I had.”

Nightingale, not fortunate enough to have a full face covering helmet of her own, had nothing to hide her stupefied expression behind. Jason had a feeling she might have removed it to make sure he saw even if she did though. She looked like she had caught him eating glue like it was a cheese stick.

“Yes you do.” She said, sounding deeply confused but unshakable confident in what she was saying. “I’ve seen it. The soup kitchens, the shelters, the collection boxes for donating old clothes, the after school day care.” Nightingale ticked off on her fingers, “I’ve lived here for less than two weeks and I’ve lost count of all the things I’ve seen setup to help people struggling in the area that I’ve been very reliably informed you and your organization are behind.”

Oh.

Those.

“Those aren’t part of some community outreach program.” He said, “We are simply locals offering services for our neighbors.”

He watched as her caught-him-eating-glue expression shifted into one that said she’d stumbled upon him licking electrical sockets for a mid-day pick-me-up instead. He had to give it to her, the woman was not afraid to let one of the most dangerous men in the city know she thought he was a fucking idiot.

“Let me see if I understand this right.” She said, and he appreciated that there wasn’t any kind of condescension in her voice, even though she very clearly thought he’d been dropped on his head as a baby. Possibly from the top of a three story building. “You have a large group of people working together to plan, organize and execute multiple services in your area - your community, if you will - that provide aid and support to those that otherwise would not receive it. Reaching out with your available time and resources to offer these services, that you provide. For free.”

Alright, Jason got it. He had stumbled ass backwards into creating a community outreach program. But he wasn’t just going to let her think she won this one. He was Red Hood, he had a reputation to uphold here.

“What makes you think any of that is free?” He tilted his head at just the right angle, the one that cast shadows across the planes of his helmet and made him look hell-touched and terrifying. “Just because we don’t charge money, doesn’t mean there isn’t a price to pay.”

Dr. Nightingale, dressed like a damn kindergarten teacher, laughed at him.

[paperfen]

Torbek says to keep yourself safe, but theres more art below the cut! CW: Scars and discussion of surgery

Fun Fen Fact! Some back surgeries require surgeons to go through the abdomen, and although newer research is showing the complications of doing so, I don't think feywild witchlight doctors really care about that! :) In my own personal headcanon (hehehe) I say that Torbek has quite a large scar on his back and a thin long scar on his abdomen where the tubing of the witchlight was pulled through and grafted to his body tissue and possibly organs. Each of the scars that has a witchlight tube connected to it constantly seems infected and angry. Both because Torbek messes with his tubes a lot and because his body is still aggravated by the witchlight. The only scar that has healed somewhat cleanly is the scar on his front, which will probably eventually grow fur again in time once Torbek stops picking at the scabs (so me fr). The notch in his ear is from him ripping out the tag that was once in it. His right paw is more or less permanently disfigured and discolored, being the dominant hand that he would use for combat and therefore being the most witchlight-manipulated. The visible veins of witchlight on his right claws glow and pulse, sometimes entirely seeming to disappear. I really really really wish I knew how his canisters work I want to know their mechanical secrets so BADLY!!! I'm only up to ep 34 im dying to learn the secrets of the Torbek I also find it extremely amusing that I did the lineart for the warning but not the lineart for the actual piece that the warning is for LMAO

[courfee]

look at that!! i've talked about it so much and now chapter 1 actually exists in real life!!

[phantomfen]

The Captain Red Hood, dreaded pirate of the Gotham Sea, was followed by the wildest stories.

Bruce had really thought the Kraken was hearsay too.

I made a cover for my fic for Haunting Heroes Who Wrote That: Mer Edition. I had a blast writing Captain Red Hood & The Kraken

[limerickshere]

To say it all over again, An alkaline wetland’s a fen. Acidic type ones Are bogs full of fun (There’s more; grab a paper and pen) A swamp is a wetland with trees Or woody-type plants. Now of these Four wetland types, last Is marsh, which amassed Just non-woody flora, one sees.

[fantasydreaamer]

I love the cinematography when they first met. The lighting comes from Anne's direction and he starts to be illuminated by it. Challe is chained in darkness, representing his empty opressed existence, until Anne comes, showing that his life will change forever for the better. Furthermore, in the LN it's shown that his hatred for humans slowly dwindles.

In Lafalle's fortress the cinematography is spot on too. Lafalle is in total darkness reflecting his heart and villain story arc. He's actually Challe's shadow, and the representation of his darkness, what he could've become. But on the contrary Challe is illuminated and the light comes from Anne's direction again, showing that she has influenced him positively and inspires him to be better. This foreshadows Challe's hero arc, Lafalle wanted him to join the dark side with him, but Challe refused. They're going to go opposite directions.

[alllthebadpartss]

so. I did it. I finished writing a novel. I wrote and completed a whole ass book.

Now, I know my work is far from done. I now have to go through all the drama of trying to get it published (big oof major l). But it's been a wild ride. I've wanted to light my manuscript and whole laptop on fire more times than I'd care to admit. But it's done. I don't think I've ever felt so proud of myself in my entire life. I will be proud of myself no matter what happens.

And the rest of you should be proud of yourselves, too.

It doesn't matter whether you write fanfics or original stories. Whether you want to be self published or be traditionally published. Whether you want to be published at all, or to just leave it as a personal project that bought you joy or helped you through a tough time. Whether you finish it or abandon it half way through because it's not the right project and it's not the right time.

You should all be proud, too.

Because you're writers. We're writers.

Okay. Thanks for coming to my Ted Talk.

[beekissies]

oh before i forget! i was thinking of a fun thing to do w lrtr and it involved writing little fic thingies for them based on diff status effects in warframe ^_^ this one was radiation. and i started on bleed! i kinda like it so far sooooo :3 content warnings for kinda visceral? language, self harm, really unhealthy ideas about love (this dog is not well!)

porcelain fingers slip under pristine white bandages and dig.

flesh parts easily, tendons tear like flimsy cord. pain erupts from their hand and creeps up their arm, and loren drinks it up like fine wine — a fresh pang of pain to soothe the long ache. 

lettie will yell at them later, they already know. but they think of dark hair and dark eyes and the sharp, gruff sound that he calls a “laugh” and they feel strangely warm. wildfires and hearths both burn the same, after all — and they don’t care enough to differentiate. 

they dig until they reach bone. until the pain is white-hot like the summer sun shining on his face. until they’re stained red like the bandana tied to the hilt of his sword. it’s his favourite colour, he told them, once.

maybe someday they’ll be his favourite, too.

[winters-tales]

On feedback and comments

So a couple of days ago I found Scribophile (by searching 'nanowrimo alternatives' bc jesus christ what is going on over there) and signed up. The system they have is a fairly good exchange: you critique others work to build up karma, and then once you've built enough karma you can post your own writing for critique. Nice little cycle.

So I've been offering critiques here and there, and finally today managed to hit enough karma to post my own work, so I posted the Prequel to The Nameless - there are a few small bits in there that I'm not happy with, but I can't quite put my finger on why.

it's been up about 6 hours, and it's already had 7 critiques, all of which raise some excellent points, while also being encouraging and respectful.

It only took 1 critique for my writing apathy to start slipping away, for the dreaded writer's block to crumble. 7 critiques has me positively champing at the bit to create and edit and finish the damn work!

Please, if you like what your writer is doing:

Comment.

Only critique if that's what's been invited, but honestly, so much interaction on just one piece of work has cleared my skin, watered my crops, brought about world peace, and I am writing again!!

[durgeapologist]

dreadrook tags everywhere been so dead lately what is going AWNNNNN i'm going to round up as much content as i can and flood them fr

[chromunist]

Long POSITIVE rant/analysis about Veilgards plot regarding Solas for me and anyone else bummed out by everyone saying the writing is bad!

SPOILERS

All that I wanted going into this game was to get to know solas as the dread wolf and get my big solavellan moment. The game delivered. This game is very much, by design, the dread wolf’s where inquisition is solas’. In inquisition he is hiding and allowed to be himself as a result, by the end of it you don't change his mind, but you make it so he no longer wants to tear down the veil, not on a personal level. Solas is sensitive, kind and wise. The dread wolf is cut throat, pragmatic and prideful. To save him you need to tap into the person from inquisition, not the god from veilgard.

The thing about solas’ mission is that on a pragmatic level he is right. Rip off the bandaid of these short mortal lives and generate a utopia of immortals. That's why pragmatism doesn’t save him. He needs to accept that on an emotional level, as a person, he doesn’t want to destroy this world, he doesn’t want to fight anymore, and he can never truly make his sacrifices mean something, he can never make any of it worth it because it will never feel worth it to him. He needs to choose to stop as a person not a god of rebellion or spirit of wisdom. Because no matter how much he didnt want to be a god, he acted like one and he can never be at peace while doing so. And no matter how much he wishes he was still a spirit, he’s not. Veilgard at the end of the day was about accepting that you will make choices you will regret, there will be uncomfortable consequences to your actions and there won't always be meaning in those consequences. You can choose to punish yourself forever (solas) or accept the uncomfortable truth that you can't punish yourself into peace and forgive yourself (rook).

The reason why one of you companions must die is so that you cannot be placed above solas. This is also why you must pick minrathous or treviso. You must walk a path like his, fight the war he fought and make the sacrifices he made. You cannot defeat solas or change him on the pretense of being better than him, of not being willing to make sacrifices like him, You MUST make sacrifices, You must put people who follow you into situations where you know they might die and when, not if, they do, you must live with the regret that comes with it.

Solas knew that eventually someone would die under your command and he waited for that moment because you would be faced with the same kind of regret as him and then you would be able to take his place. You don't get to act like you are better than him because you never abandoned anyone, you don't get to act like you are better than him because you never ordered someone to their likely demise. Because you did. You cant get solas to stop by making the claim that he is wrong and you are right, because he isn't. You’re the same. Rook is a foil to solas

The dinanshiral for him is continuing to walk the path that only makes him hate himself more. that he doesn’t feel good about or want to do. He wants to stop but he can no longer see the line between his pride and wisdom. He wants to keep walking it because he can't let go of the fight and accept that this is what all his sacrifices will amount to. He knows he will only hate himself more at the end of the journey but he thinks he deserves to feel all that guilt and shame if it means bringing about the utopia he imagines. He sees the regret and pain of making this ideal world as a burden only he can bear and therefore has a responsibility to take on. He fails if he doesn’t he is selfish if he doesn’t because the sacrifices hes made and the elves of now (in his eyes deluded by idealism) deserve the world he is trying to create

It’s not that solas can't accept he did bad things. He’s great at that actually. He can't accept that he did bad things and those things might never matter. He took risks and lost and there is no reward that can make him feel like it was worth it, but he's trying to make it feel worth it by continuing his plans. He cant accept that he acted like a god, created this deeply flawed world, and cant fix it. He sees himself as the only one who can save his people and cant accept the reality that he failed at preserving one thing he always wanted to preserve. After millennia of fighting and sacrificing for it, how does he just stop? Just because he wants to? That’s selfish. He can take the pain, he deserves it even. So why not keep going? He has to do it, someone else might get it wrong (haha).

Rook is freed because they listen to the people who love them, accept forgiveness from those they hurt, and the reality of their guilt. But choose not to hate themselves anyways.

You show him it's okay to stop. He's not failing. You make him accept his pain and his mistake. You mythal and the inquisitor give him the permission to end, to be forgiven so he can finally give himself the release from that ancient duty. The acceptance of the grim reality he wrought as real and permanent and he doesn’t need to honor those sacrifices because doing so will still never change the reality of how they make him feel. He finally gets to live as a hurt and flawed man, not a savior with the weight of the world on his shoulders. I think thats a beautiful and perfect ending for him, and the whole plot of veilgard is to build rook up into this dichotomy with him.

Solas pretty much says he made you into him, but he didn’t anticipate you’d be able to forgive yourself. Because forgiveness is something he cant imagine granting himself until the end, when he is met with genuine compassion and understanding by those he hurt.

[yukirayu]

hii! i am absolutely blown by your analysis of Taku and Madarame: To Heal and To Hurt, and it gave me alot more insight into how Taku is a great foil for other characters. i kept thinking about the CG artwork of Taku's painting. it seems like the vacancy of the center square might represent the removal of a webtag or even the eventual disappearance of Towa's past trauma which Taku tried so hard to suppress. do you have any thoughts on the painting as a whole?

Hi, I apologize for replying to this several months later. Sorting through my drafts/WIPs or the things I need to do in general got me rather distracted, to say the least, but I am committed to seeing this through.

Thanks so much of course for reading and liking the metas. I'm always glad to hear that others like it and that I've managed to get the message through.

Now as for my opinion, I will give the disclaimer that said opinion is greatly inspired by what this person said in their breakdown of the paintings, as well as an art I saw that did their own breakdown about what the red square represented.

If anything, I may as well be parroting what they said in the site, albeit with different wording; since as someone who has no experience in art, analyzing paintings isn't exactly what I'd call my strongest suit let alone something I have confidence in.

But true enough, the image does really give off the image of a medical patch that Taku is trying as hard as he can to keep intact by either reapplying or patching over with a new one... even if he can't keep truly contain the "blood" that is the pain and trauma left by Towa's past, or even Taku's own hurts that are both connected to Towa's ordeal and the tragedy that he had contended with alone (his mother and the debt he had accrued as a result of his family situation) even before Towa came along.

It might even represent how Taku has a hard time keeping his own troubles in check and is better (or at least more proactive and willing) at doing the same for others. Because try as he might, the cracks start to show (or bleed, in this case), partly because he's not good at lying or hiding things, and partly because there's only so much he can handle until he finally snaps from it all; hence why he has a darker side that manifests in his route, where the way the plot progresses makes things reach a breaking point for him.

That aside, from purely aesthetic point of view, it is relatively simple looking, especially when you compare it to the other paintings. Like I've said, I'm no artist myself, so I can't really give a good description of what I think of this and that painting without risking coming across as pretentious and such. But at the very least, I find it pleasing to look at because of its simplicity.

One other thing about it that I think is rather understated (as well as incredibly touching) is how it's the only painting that gets featured in the cover for the AfterStory drama CDs. I think that this is becase while it's a very apt visual reflection of Taku's guilt and burdens, which Towa knows very well with how perceptive he is (and it's even the focus of his Interrogations with Taku), it is also a representation of Towa's own longing for Taku the entire time the latter was in prison.

Heck, it even becomes a topic of conversation in the first track, which leads to one of my favorite moments between them:

Towa: You’re not going to ask me who’s the inspiration of those paintings? Taku: …No…  Towa: You’re not interested in knowing?  Taku: That’s not it…! But… Towa: But?  Taku: (slightly insecure) Of course I’m curious. I mean… who were you painting?   (Towa says nothing and simply chuckles at Taku’s cluelessness.) Taku: (flustered and annoyed) Hey…! Towa: (still a hint of laughter in his voice) Oh, sorry. I had a feeling you wouldn’t be able to figure it out, so I just…  Taku: …What do you mean by that? Towa: (moves closer to Taku) All those paintings, who do you think they are of? (leans even closer and answers in an affectionate whisper) Murase… Takuma.

It's really telling that after Towa paints something, he no longer really cares for it and doesn't mind whatever anyone else does to it. But this painting, he treasures it enough to keep it in Taku's apartment (or rather, their home, together).

That, and one other significant detail: when it comes to Towa's modus operandi regarding his painting, he only ever paints each model once, no exceptions. Why? Because he wants to capture the very first time his model's innermost desire is fulfilled; in other words, when their euphoria is at its apex. It's why he won't agree to a second time, since the impact is no longer the same.

However, the narration for Taku's Euphoria ending as well as some other lines from Towa in the drama CD made it apparent that while that painting with the white splotches and the red square is his magnum opus of Taku, there were countless other paintings and sketches that he made of the man.

His way of coping, of waiting for Taku to serve his time, to reflect and come back a changed man, was to reflect his memory and feelings for him on paper and canvas, over and over and over, each one definitely distinct from one another (even if we never get to see those other artworks).

So... there. I hope that I still made sense at the end of this post, and I really hope it was a satisfactory answer for you. Again, I am so sorry for the delayed response, but I really appreciate getting this ask. 🥺