#how does he do his magic where does it come from

[keferon]

Part 2 of Golem!Prowl AU!

_____________________

“I hate it,” Orion sighs.

“It's understandable. But you can't change the system from the inside without becoming part of it first.”

“I was hoping I could become part of it without becoming a murderer.”

“It's okay” says Prowl ”You don't have to. That's what you have me for.”

Orion twitches.

Part 1. Next->

The fic under the cut⤵️

Orion looks...sick. Worried. Scared.

“Prowl, do you know what the Great Hunt is?”

Prowl tilts his head keeping up with the lists he received from the Council.

“Traditional raids on monsters made to consolidate control over the land holdings of regular Mechs.”

Orion rubs the bridge of his nose

“It's a massacre.”

Prowl twitches his wing.

“It is a measure of intimidation against creatures that cannot be negotiated with. Brutal, I don't deny that, but experience shows it works. The destructive activity of monsters lessens considerably if they know their actions can be followed by punishment.”

Orion stares at him. For a long time. Silently.

Tensely studying him, as if seeing him for the first time.

“You think killing them instead of finding a compromise is...right?”

Prowl thinks he must be treading on unstable ground.

“I think it works. That is all. Monsters do a lot of damage with their existence. They kill, destroy and pillage. If periodically reducing their numbers reduces their damage, it confirms the effectiveness of the strategy.”

“They just want to live. Primus' sake, they want to eat.”

Prowl sighs. More for appearances than for any real effect.

“I suppose I can't judge them for wanting to survive. It makes sense.”

Orion nods.

He looks oddly pensive.

“Ratchet keeps picking up wounded...” he stammers, apparently trying to find a suitable alternative to the word monster “...wounded beastformers. I've been to his house. It's generous, but I'm afraid of what will happen if he gets caught doing it.”

Prowl frowns

“He should have stopped.”

“You wouldn't understand.” sighs Orion ”Him. Shockwave. We want to help. To make things better. I don't need you to chide me for disobeying the rules, I need you to figure out how to change them. Ghosts and insecticons deserve freedom as much as we do.”

“But...”

Orion looks at him angrily.

“No. Whatever you're going to say in response to that. No. I know you're driven primarily by logic, but I need you to remember it well. All sentient beings deserve to live free. Do you understand? All of them. Period.”

Prowl rolls up the lists and interlocks his fingers in front of him. There are small scuffs on his thumbs and index fingers from constant writing. He occupies himself with running his fingers over them, feeling the difference in texture.

“Mech's freedom in such a case ends where someone else's hungry jaws begin. You can't expect monsters and Mechs to just coexist in peace if you give them freedom.”

“No” sighed Orion ”That's why I support Shockwave's idea with creating an academy for magically gifted Mechs. He's helping to show the world that so-called 'dark creatures' can be as civilized citizens as any Mech. He teaches them to find that compromise. We can't just expect centuries of hate and fear to be forgotten once the laws change. We must direct this process. To help the Mechs understand and accept each other. Guide them, you might say.”

Prowl feels a headache coming on, as it always does when Orion requires him to logically solve a problem the answer to which lies in the feelings rather than the intellect. He's not built for this. It irritates him.

Orion stops right in front of him and puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Tell me what you think of this. If...let's pretend for a second that my morality fiddles don't matter anymore. That the problem of Mechs and monsters coexisting is something you alone need to solve. And solve it in such a way that the outcome is optimal for us as a society. To maximize the number of happy citizens. What would you do?”

Prowl is silent for a moment.

Orion squeezes his shoulder lightly before continuing.

“'Free from my judgmental conclusions, Prowl. From the standpoint of pure logic. What should we do?”

What to do...Prowl's thought process finally finds a direct and understandable train of thought. Monsters make up a paltry few percent of the population of all living Mechs. The numbers fluctuate depending on which region is being considered of course.

In some cities, some types of monsters are considered just fancy Mechs. Some monsters have risen from the status of savages to being respectable Mechs over the course of history. Even Orion's best friend, Shockwave, could be regarded as a mystical creature in some regions due to his gift of flight.

Nevertheless. The percentage is still minuscule.

But even that tiny percentage takes a significant toll on the economy and quality of life, because just one uncontrollable creature can terrorize an entire city.

He notes the weight of Orion's hand on his shoulder. Not judgmental. Orion promised he wouldn't judge.

“I'd get rid of the monsters.”

“Oh” Orion blinks ”Locked them in cages? Chased them away? Killed them?”

Prowl twitches his wings

“Banishment will only move the problem in terms of space, and imprisonment isn't secure enough. It would make sense to get rid of the monsters. Once and for all. It wouldn't be pretty or merciful, but it would greatly improve life for everyone, at the cost of a tiny percentage of living beings who were already of no use.”

“And you believe that would be a good outcome?”

“I believe it would.”

“But you're not a Mech yourself.” Orion reminds “Would you be willing to be exterminated along with the rest of the creatures if your plan were put into action?”

Prowl tilts his head slightly. Just to make it easier to look at Orion.

“You created me to, as you put it, help you make the world a better place. Sometimes in order to improve something you have to cut out the factors that get in the way. It's simple logic.”

“You didn't answer my question” Orion points out ”How would you feel if I decided to take your advice and destroy all mystical creatures, including you?”

“I am not made to feel” straightens Prowl ”My job is to find solutions to problems. I gave you a solution.”

“You don't include yourself in the reckoning.” snorts Orion “Again. You talk as if you will never be affected by anything.”

As it should be, Prowl thinks. He's a conscientious worker and a ..seemingly law-abiding citizen. He does what he can to make Mech's lives better. Even though he may not be a Mech, he's doing the right thing. Why would something happen to him?

Orion removes his hand from his shoulder and shakes his head.

“'Alright. I've heard you. But I want to make it as clear as possible - what you suggested is immoral, cruel, and should never be implemented. Do you understand me? Never. If you want to build a better world, you cannot and will not build it on other people's deaths. Have I made myself clear enough?”

“Perfectly clear.”

“Good.”

-----------------

Ratchet looks...many words could be used to describe him.

He's standing in the center of the trial room with a lot of emotions written all over his face. But if Prowl had to describe - he'd say Ratchet practically radiates rage. Not violent. More of a powerless one.

The rage of a Mech who knows he's cornered, but refuses to even consider giving up and admitting defeat.

Prowl sits in a far dark corner, silently documenting the whole process.

The council is furious. They apparently discovered that Ratchet has been dragging wounded monsters to his house and healing them all this time.

Which is ... very much as expected from Ratchet.

Prowl wants Orion here, but both Orion and Shockwave are now on a diplomatic mission a few days away, so the only support Ratchet has is...Prowl. Who can't help in any way, so he just sits there and meticulously documents the whole process so that Orion can then be informed of every single detail.

The council doesn't look happy. They say that Ratchet is sabotaging the hunters' efforts to contain the monsters by his actions.They are angered by Ratchet's absolute determination to insist that he was doing the right thing.

Prowl would be impressed, if only Ratchet's stubbornness made sense.

It's simple math. Ratchet saves lives. Monsters take them.

Thus Ratchet's life has much, much more weight and is more valuable.

If Ratchet would just accept the Council's decision now and promise to stop curing monsters, the whole problem would be solved as efficiently as possible.

But Ratchet, of course, persists. Probably just because that's his nature.

Ratchet can also afford to be so stubborn because his skill level makes him incredibly valuable to the Council. Prowl knows for a fact that if any other medic were in Ratchet's shoes right now - they would have been sentenced to banishment or execution by now.

When Ratchet realizes exactly how the Council caught him, his rage is instantly replaced by shock.

This revelation is enough to startle him and make him back down. To nod and numbly swear that he will end his "blasphemous hobby."

Prowl carefully folds the scribbled scrolls into the case as the Council doors close behind both his and Ratchet's backs.

“Orion will be happy to know that you were prudent enough to avoid death.”

Ratchet shifts his gaze to him

“You knew? Knew they could see through our optics? Did you know they could find out anything about any Mech at any time?”

Prowl tucks his hands behind his back and nods politely

“Knowing things is my job.”

Ratchet sighs. Heavy. Exhausted. Doomed maybe.

“How does Orion deal with it...”

“Orion has a reputation with the Council. They consider him a decent, law-abiding Mech, so they see no point in keeping tabs on him.”

“Are you kidding?” Raetchet raises his eyebrows “Orion can't do everything he does and remain ‘decent’ in their eyes. He and Shockwave practically cuddle with every possible creature every day and all they get is a little reprimand????”

Prowl tilts his head

“Orion learned to look away in time. And he has me for everything else.”

Ratchet doesn't answer him. He rubs the bridge of his nose tiredly and starts to walk away.

His shoulders look oddly tense. He looks defeated, but not in the way a Mech would describe a slain turbofox. No. There is a deep-seated, angry determination.

A willingness to act dictated by desperation.

The news of the surveillance has thrown Ratchet off balance but not knocked him off his feet as the Council had hoped.

Prowl looks at his back and walks off in the opposite direction. The problems of living, feeling Mechs have always been and will always be mysterious to him.

Ratchet does what no one expects him to do.

He doesn't stage protests. He doesn't accept the verdict.

He leaves silently, taking with him only medical supplies and an old lantern.

The council is furious, turning over every stone in an attempt to find him, but all in vain.

Prowl's daily duties now include “keeping track of any possible news related to Ratchet.“

And then, no matter what he finds, report to Orion that he's found nothing.

Put on a little regular show for all concerned. Show the Mechs in the Council that Orion remains loyal and does his best to find and bring to justice any blasphemer whether it's a friend of his or not.

He is his purpose. But the more time passes, the harder it becomes for him to trace the path to the fulfillment of that purpose. He envies the golems whose only function is to scrub floors. Their lives are understandable. A clean floor is a temporary but easily attainable goal. They are happy to fulfill the goal for which they were created. And then they're happy knowing their job is done well, until the floor gets dirty again.

Prowl is walking towards his goal, but it's not getting any closer. He knows what he needs to do to get there, but the variables are constantly changing and he has to adjust his course of action each time according to new information, conditions, and Orion's opinion on them.

Politics is infinitely more complicated than mopping floors after all.

————————————

Orion doesn't turn around on him as they walk down the hall. But Prowl can physically feel the attention focused on him.

“Prowl. Did you know I was awarded today for my ''outstanding service'' by the entire Council?”

“I did not.

“They've gone through all the reports and discovered that according to the logs me and my mechs are performing excellently when it comes to eliminating mystical threats.”

“Congratulations.”

“It's funny that you feel the need to congratulate me too” Orion continues ”Because I certainly didn't give orders to eliminate anyone.”

Their pacing doesn't falter. They continue to walk calmly down the hallway as if nothing is happening. But Prowl can practically taste the increased tension.

“Prowl” says Orion “Why is the Council rewarding me for murder? And where are the Mechs they think I killed now?”

Prowl checks the scrolls. Not because he doesn't remember. Just to buy some time to formulate an answer.

“They were the inevitable casualties. I took charge of their destruction. On your behalf.”

“You know how I feel about killing.”

“I know.” nods Prowl for some reason. Why? Not that Orion can see it “I also know how the Council feels about Mechs showing suspicious activity. They would have started watching you as soon as they noticed you were letting monsters slip away from you suspiciously often.”

Orion...sounds... conflicted. He sounds struggling.

“You killed them.”

“I gave the order. As any other hunter would have done in my place.”

Orion stops so abruptly that Prowl doesn't catch the moment and bumps into his back.

“We're supposed to be better than other hunters Prowl! How can you still not grasp that concept!!!”

Orion looks furious. Prowl discreetly looks around.

Around them is a relatively empty hall. Windows covered by heavy curtains. The cleaning golems scurrying back and forth.

“I understand” he says “But let me remind you that you cannot test their trust infinitely. Your 'being better' rests on your reputation. And it's my job to make sure your reputation lives up to it.”

Orion looks at him...Prowl isn't even sure how to describe it. Usually he has to argue with Orion's logic, proving his point but this time...Orion is the one arguing with him.

It feels strange. Uncomfortable.

He's doing everything Orion wanted him to do, but for the sake of it he has to do something Orion can't stand.

Orion clenches and unclenches his fists helplessly. Rubbing the fabric of his cloak.

“Shockwave can save lives without killing anyone.”

“Shockwave is one unfortunate act away from serious consequences” shakes his head Prowl “His academy is looking more and more like his own small army every day. His students are not loyal to the Council, they are loyal to Shockwave. And the Council knows that. And will use it. And it won't be pretty when it happens.”

“No...” shakes his head Orion, not addressing anyone in particular ”No no no no no...”

Prowl can understand why Orion is upset. But he also knows he's right this time. Shockwave may look like a fine example of mercy, but he walks on the very edge of the law and any wrong move will instantly turn him from “out of the box thinker” to renegade.

The Council will come for his head and the Council will get his head because Shockwave will have nothing to prove his loyalty with.

Orion will. Prowl made sure of that.

Orion can bend the rules, can borrow the Council's trust, can do all sorts of reprehensible things. He can stumble and fall and then fall a couple more times and find that it doesn't hurt him because Prowl caught him even before he stumbled.

He did it at the cost of lives. Yes.

But Orion's life is far more valuable than the lives of monsters.

Society doesn't need monsters to become better, but society needs Orion. Monsters need Orion. Because if Orion is gone, no one else will care about his idealistic goal.

“Sometimes I forget how creepy you can be...” mutters Orion ”You're going to betray me sooner or later.”

“I could never betray you.” Prowl twitches his wing.

“You've successfully betrayed what I believe in.”

“It's fine with me if you hate me for it. As long as you are alive, safe, and can continue your quest.”

Orion falls silent.

He turns away to stare at a strip of light from a nearby window. There are beautiful, wrought iron grates that cast an intricate, curved shadow on the floor and walls.

A golem janitor hurries past them.

“I hate it,” Orion sighs.

“It's understandable. But you can't change the system from the inside without becoming part of it first.”

“I was hoping I could become part of it without becoming a murderer.”

“It's okay” says Prowl ”You don't have to. That's what you have me for.”

Orion twitches.

Shockwave falls.

Prowl isn't there to see for himself, but a lot of rumors reach him. Lots. Lots of rumors.

The Mechs say the time of the Great Hunt has come.

They say that when the hunters arrived on the Academy's doorstep, Shockwave didn't let them in.

They say. He stood in front of the gates.

With sword in one hand and the Primus Covenant in the other, and declared that his school was a sanctuary for all living beings in need of protection.

Claimed that anyone who dared set foot inside with a weapon would have to go through him.

“And they retreated!” gestures Orion frantically ”They didn't dare test him! They backed away from the walls of the Academy. I don't know how many monsters were left alive in the forests that night, but none of Shockwave's students were harmed...”

Prowl listens with a healthy dose of wariness

“The Council wouldn't just let him do that.”

Orion begins nervously winding circles around the room.

“You're right, you're right. You're right now and you were right back then. They're going to bring him before the Court by tomorrow, and...”

“There's no chance of that ending well,...is there?" Prowl finishes his thought.

Orion looks pained

“They'll be going through everything he's been up to. Every forged document, every enrolled Mech who by all criteria should be considered a monster. Every time he sheltered them from the Council instead of destroying them. They'll realize what he's been doing and they won't like it at all.”

Prowl...trying to sound reassuring.

“Shockwave has tremendous support from his Academy. There's a chance the Council will be afraid of invoking their wrath and won't judge Shockwave too harshly.”

Orion continues to walk in circles

“You think so?”

“There is a good chance.”

Prowl finds Orion in Sickbay. Which is very disturbing and wrong, because Orion was supposed to be at the Trial. Supporting Shockwave and begging the Council to relent.

But Orion is in Sick Bay. When he shouldn't be.

And he's covered in ugly dark burns. From something Prowl can't recognize.

This is all wrong. It's all--

“What happened at the trial?”

Orion sounds. Startled.

“There was no Trial.”

“What?”

Orion sounds as if something inside him has cracked. In every sense of the phrase.

“The Trial hasn't even had time to begin. He...” Orion clutches his trembling fingers, hoping to still them, but it has no tangible effect. His shoulders are trembling.

He looks like his whole body could be torn apart with one careless touch. “They asked him if he would plead guilty to aiding and abetting dark creatures. All they had time to ask was if he realized he was wrong.”

An uncomfortable, prickly feeling settles in Prowl's mind.

"And?”

Orion squeezes his fingers so hard the creaking of hinges becomes audible.

“It...I...Prowl, his very spark began to ooze dark magic. It was horrible, it was like.. it was eating him from the inside. The entire courtroom became darker than night, many Mechs got burned. I've never seen anything like this before! He..It.. started attacking Mechs and destroying everything...it was like it went crazy...it attacked me and I had to...Prowl I had to fight it! I didn't...I'd heard about it happening but I believed until the last minute that I wouldn't have to face it...”

Gears of chaotic detail fall into place in Prowl's mind.

“Shockwave...turned into a demon...?”

Orion nods shakily

“The Council didn't even have a chance to sentence him or spare him or even sort out what happened.....

He stated that he did not consider himself guilty for what he had done and...Primus was the one who made the judgment before anyone else could...”

That's... terrifying really. For a number of reasons. Losing a close friend is awful, being subjected to such merciless punishment is awful, but also...

What sends a chill down Prowl's back is the moral implication that such punishment carries.

Orion, as if reading his thoughts, raises his gaze to him

“Is what we are doing...wrong? I don't...does Primus think helping monsters is worthy of punishment?”

Now that's a really reasonable question.

Shockwave would say that Primus is merciful and would never condemn a Mech for an act of kindness. But Shockwave ended up being condemned.

Ratchet would say that he doesn't care about Primus' opinion because Primus isn't real. But Ratchet isn't here.

Prowl wants to say that it doesn't matter whether or not Primus thinks they're wrong, what matters is that he can at any moment force his justice on any living spark, so his concept of right has to become Orion's too, or else he's doomed. But Orion is definitely in no state to have a philosophical argument. He looks shattered and Prowl almost instinctively is about to go and find Shockwave, but remembers that option is no longer available.

He's not made for this. Shockwave has always been the one to cheer Orion up on a bad day. Not Prowl, no. Prowl isn't sure what to do so he just sits down next to him and gently places a hand on Orion's shoulder. The one where he can't see the burns, so it shouldn't hurt.

“I don't. I'm used to always relying on your point of view as a reference for what's right and what's wrong.”

“I know” runs a shaky hand over his face Orion “But it's not like I'm perfect. I try, god, I try but just like with the logical part - my vision isn't flawless. Have I been...wrong all this time? Trying to disrupt Primus' intended vision? Maybe what I've been trying to fix never needed fixing. Maybe it's just me being so stupid and not understanding things maybe...???”

Orion cuts himself off mid sentence, realizing that he's started raising his voice and waving his arms around again. He sits back down on the medical bed and curls back up into a miserable ball.

“What should I do....”

“I don't know,” Prowl repeats awkwardly.

He is his goal. But his goal ..doesn't exist anymore?

He doesn't know where to put himself.

Golems are made to fulfill requests. But Orion's request system has been evolving and complicating for so long that Prowl can't tell where its boundaries are anymore.

He feels lost.

——————————

Orion stops cold.

“What...”

Prowl, standing at his right hand looks equally puzzled.

They are in a spacious courtyard bordering directly on the Council building. It's a very beautiful, open and spacious place because it was originally built with large crowds of Mechs in mind. There's wide walkways, a massive circular plaza with fountains and statues.

And right now, it's filled to the brim with Mechs, most of whom Prowl is seeing for the first time. They're all wearing knight armor and carrying weapons, however still kept in their scabbards.

They look like a small army. A very, very diverse army, Prowl realizes. Because there are almost no regular Mechs among them.

Orion looks... distraught.

Mechs? Monsters? A few knights separate and come closer, bowing their heads respectfully.

“Orion Pax.”

There is so much grief and disbelief in Orion's eyes that it physically hurts to look at him.

When he begins to speak his voice sounds hoarse, like someone has poured sand down his throat.

“What...what are you doing here...?”

The knight standing in front of everyone ceremoniously places his palm on his spark.

“We are here to fulfill the last will of our mentor and your friend. Shockwave has decreed in his last will that in the event of his death his legacy must pass to you and those of us who wish to carry on his work must publicly pledge our allegiance to your will.”

Orion clutches his hands together to keep them from starting to shake again.

“But...I was there. I...your mentor was slain by my hands...how can you..."

"It doesn't matter. Everything that was his is now yours." smiles the knight sadly "We will make sure his legacy lives on. And even if the Academy falls - you can always count on us."

At the same time as he finishes speaking, the knight in blue armor drops to one knee, pulling Shockwave's sword from its sheath and holding it out respectfully to Orion... who looks like he's about to start crying.

He dazedly accepts the sword, twitching in surprise when it turns out to be heavier than expected and probably tries to say something, but all that comes out is a short sorrowful sigh.

He just.

Clutches the sword to his chest, watching in disbelief as all the arriving mechs get down on one knee following the blue knight. There aren't that many mechs, but at this point - they seem to rival the sea.

Prowl knows some of them. Many of them made their way to Shockwave after Orion found them. There's the harpy over there who nearly ripped Orion's head off the first time they met. A few ghosts he can remember the faces of but doesn't know the names. He'd had a long argument with Orion that day, trying to convince him that he shouldn't take their word for it when they promised to make it up to him.

And now they're all here. In beautiful new armor. Executing their mentor's last will and testament.

Just like regular Mechs, only a little eccentric looking.

The crowd of hunters that has come to find out what's going on looks as speechless and dumbfounded as Orion.

" What" Orion also gets down on one knee to be on the same level as the knight "what's your name?"

Prowl squints warily from behind Orion's shoulder. The blue mech looks normal, but to be honest, there's no way someone coming out of the Shockwave Academy is going to be an normal plain mech. There has to be a catch somewhere.

"My name is Skids," smiles the knight shyly. "I am...was...Shockwave's best student."

"You are very brave Skids" smiles Orion sorrowfully "I promise to do my best to take care of Shockwave's legacy. And you."

Orion drops his head on the table tiredly.

"This is crazy..."

Prowl pulls an important document from under Orion's head

"It's also quite devious. Shockwave told them specifically to swear to you where all comers can see it. So there's no way for the Council to accuse you of purposely swaying an army of monsters to your side. Everyone saw that this gift was given by force. Now you have many allies with unique skills who are loyal to you and the Council won't try to take them away because they are firmly convinced that you are loyal to the Council."

Prowl examines the document for damage before setting it aside.

"It is..."

"Shockwave gave you an opportunity."

"And I don't know what to do with it!" raises his head Orion "Shockwave was smarter than me and made a lot of plans in case of...I don't know...anything?? I didn't...Prowl. We've been down this path for so long and I was always sure there would be something good at the end of it. Or at least better than it is now..."

Orion rubs his chin and shakes his head awkwardly

"...But if there's only the wrath of Primus and endless darkness at the end...I can't ask anyone to follow me there. I'm not sure if I can keep going myself..."

He sighs helplessly

"I'm not even sure if that even matters."

"The chance that Shockwave would try to use you in some way was about twenty-eight percent."

Orion twitches

"What?"

"I understand that you're hurt by his...fate." Says Prowl "But have you considered the possibility that Shockwave was being punished for betraying you rather than the Council?"

Orion doesn't even answer at first. Just looks at him dazed and bitter.

"Prowl...no. He couldn't have."

"I'm just speculating" shrugs Prowl "Shockwave was punished but as far as I know God didn't bother to name the exact charge. We don't know one hundred percent what exactly caused his...sentence. He may have betrayed the Council's ideas, or he may have betrayed yours."

They both just exist in silence for a while. Processing the information.

"If...and I mean if!!! If Shockwave was convicted of harboring monsters, then everything we've been doing all this time can be considered useless blasphemy..." says Orion slowly "...but if he was punished for something else..."

"...then that would mean there's nothing wrong with your idea." finishes Prowl.

Orion frowns

"It would also mean that Shockwave lied to me..."

Prowl nods. The situation is ugly no matter which way you look at it.

Shockwave, as Prowl knows him, would hardly have framed Orion, but Mechs tend to go to great lengths to avoid execution.

If Shockwave had shifted some of the blame to Orion then, it would have partially saved him. Was that what he was going to do? Was this what Primus had stopped him from doing?

Orion's finials twitch slowly

"I don't know Prowl. I don't know what to do. I don't want anyone else to get hurt because of my fantasies."

Orion is hard to read, but right now he's an open book.

Prowl tilts his head

"You're scared."

Orion looks. Defeated. Crumpled.

Discolored.

" I am."

Prowl can't work with that. He's used to solving logical problems and making lists and strategies.

He doesn't know how to get someone to stop being scared.

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

"I don't know." mutters Orion "I don't know, I have no idea. It's too much...All these new knights, this whole council situation and now you're also saying that the mech I treasured the most could actually be a liar and...just leave me alone."

"But..."

"Just go away!" shakes his head Orion "Go find something else to do, find a hobby, I don't know! Get out of my head and out of my personal life!"

Prowl nods silently.

Places a couple papers in their places and silently walks out the door.

Gestures a greeting to some mech passing by.

And is completely unsure of what to do with himself.

Orion's too stunned by everything that's happened to give him a clear purpose. And without a purpose, he...he's gone.

He continues to stand by the closed door.

A thought runs obsessively through his mind.

If Shockwave was sentenced for something no one knew about, then punishing him the moment of that trial was a truly terrible decision and even worse timing.

But if Shockwave was sentenced for helping monsters...Prowl isn't sure why his mind resists the idea.

Maybe he's not being objective because he shares Orion's views and aspirations.

Maybe because he has looked at the entire square filled with dangerous monsters and has seen nothing but sorrow and respect in them.

The idea comes naturally.

Then God must be wrong.

He looks at the cleaning golems again. He envies them.

They are peace and contentment.

They are a clear and simple goal.

Probably the biggest stress that happens to them is random mechs passing by and interfering with their cleaning.

And then there's Prowl, standing by with no meaning or purpose and wishing he could throw something heavy because the one who gets in his way is an indefinable force of nature and a complex system of values and beliefs created by millions of years of cultural development....

But Primus can't stop him, can he?

Prowl is not alive. He has no emotion so that his intentions can be categorized as evil, but more importantly he has no spark so that its magic can turn him into a demon.

He is his purpose. His purpose is his god. And Primus stands in his way.

He turns around and walks away.

[litnerdwrites]

Yes to all of this. 100% Yes!

And to add on, I think Feyre ended up getting exactly what she wanted.

She got upset about the whole 'no such thing as a high lady' thing, in a conversation she started by stating how the title of High Lady made her uncomfortable. Between this and the way she chants in her head, while opening gifts, praying that they aren't crowns, imply that the idea of having equal authority and political power upset her. However, what Feyre did want, was to paint, help rebuild after the devastation of Amarantha's reign, and not be stuck indoors all the time.

There were a couple problems with each of her desires though. Her trauma reaction prevented her from doing things she enjoyed, due to both survivors guilt and a associating red with blood. Going out was dangerous, due to her unstable powers, the instability of the court, and the risk of Hybern/others coming after her (remember that she's untrained in both magic, and fighting, still trying to become properly accustomed to her fae body and new lifestyle, and panics at the sight of anything resembling blood, which probably would include actual blood). All of these are valid concerns, but Feyre's desires a valid too. It was up to her and Tamlin to communicate, grow their relationship, and try to find solutions, alternatives, and otherwise attempt to move forward together, while supporting each other, setting healthy boundaries, and making their expectations clear. If it couldn't work out, or they weren't meshing, then they should've broken up amicably.

But this post isn't about their communication issues.

Stepping back, I think what Feyre wants is power without the responsibility or drawbacks.

She wants to have her say in politics, or matters regarding the court, when she feels like it, but refuses to acknowledge the political ramifications of marrying The High Lord of Spring, being the woman who broke Amarantha's Curse, and having the powers of all seven HLs after being resurrected by them. She wants to be Tamlin's equal in every way, but when it comes to the idea of equal political status, she expresses discomfort. She wants power equal to his, without the title. Yet, she refuses to acknowledge or even deal with or learn more about the political ramifications of her circumstances.

Feyre laments her circumstances, but doesn't make an effort to educate herself about them. She never tries to learn how to read or ask about the laws of the Spring Court. She's upset when people cite that there are rules and traditions she and they need to follow, but makes no effort to learn them in any capacity, so she might understand her situation, and take action accordingly. Instead, she shows open disdain for those rules and traditions, without properly trying to communicate her problem, leaving her looking like a toddler.

Now, Velaris is the opposite of this.

There's no danger because no one knows it exists.

There's no distance between her and the people because they've spent centuries living next door to their ruler and his inner court, and can see him regularly when he hosts those meet & greets where his people raise their issues to him.

They aren't bombarding her with their gratitude because, a) It was the spring Court that was cursed, and b) The only issues Velaris saw, from what we can tell, was no trade, meaning no spices. It's clear that the area warded was large enough to not only encompass the city, but enough farmland to feed the entire population for fifty years, otherwise having very little over all impact on their quality of life.

Velaris has been protected on the blood of Illyria and the Hewn City, facing little to no significant changes in their lifestyles as a result. Both during war, and under Amarantha.

The political climate of the Velaris is not only stable, but has no impact on other courts, nor does it draw the eye of foreign nations because, again, nobody knows it exists. Feyre can do what she wants, because there's little consequence in doing so, while in Velaris. If Feyre fucks up political matters, it isn't going to have many ramifications, because the citizens will just laugh it off and carry on with their day.

If she uses her powers, before the other HLs learn about them, she doesn't have to worry about being spied on, anyone learning about them, because it doesn't matter in Velaris. If she wants to spend time painting at a studio in town, or volunteering, there's no risk of her life being in danger, because nobody knows this city exists. If anyone is looking for her, they will probably check either The Hewn City, Illyria, or any other small towns/villiages/cities that may exist because nobody suspects that there's a secret other city.

Meanwhile, none of those factors can be applied to the Spring Court, because while there, all eyes are on her and there would be ramifications to her actions.

It makes sense Feyre becomes High Lady in Velaris, because it means nothing. It requires nothing from her. There's little weight on her shoulders, and being uneducated isn't an issue because there's nobody around to critique her or how much/little she works. To the citizens, she's more like a neighbour, and we have no evidence that any of them leave Velaris at all, so we can assume they haven't personally seen the other two thirds of their court. With that in mind, what have they got to compare her or Rhys to, given the luxury they live in.

Of course she doesn't do High Lady duties. She doesn't have any, and if she did, they wouldn't matter. It's not like they look after anywhere other than Velaris anyway.

In regards to Nesta, I agree that she isn't able to rule either, but she has the most potential. It's important to understand that when we're told that Nesta was 'raised to marry a prince', it doesn't mean she's versed in politics. At least not more than is necessary for social gatherings. Aside from birthing heirs, and possibly hosting events, a Princess or Queen would be responsible for managing the household, meaning Nesta was likely raised to do just that. When they got their wealth back, it was likely her running and managing the household, especially while her father was away.

Ultimately, Nesta's education didn't give her the skills a politition would need, she has the most potential to learn, and even without that, I still think she'd do a better job than Feyre. At the very least, she can read, and has the initiative to go learn how to do it, if she doesn't know.

doesn’t surprise me feyre doesn’t do her high lady duties and she only brings it up for her own interests bc remember how much she brought up tamlin not making her a high lady?

tamlin would have made her his lady, same duties now she is doing now except her title has “high” word in it

“tamlin never saw me as his equal” bc your not! you don’t even know the basics of fae world!

tamlin not seeing feyre his equal for position of ruling does not mean he didn’t love or value her

it’s most likely tamlin thought they had all the time in the world now and he would teach her as they’d go

and is like what’s wrong with that?? some self reflection would go a long way feyre

she isn’t educated

she knows nothing about the faes or lands

has no training in politics

has no idea how to behave at court

she knows nothing

feyre had no reason to believe she is worthy of being tamlin’s or anyone’s equal in a position of leadership over a court

all she did was free tamlin, who then killed amarantha

if she believes it should be bc of love like honey, that’s not how it works. again it shows she has no knowledge of the land, of fae and the world of power

if it was human lands and politics then it’d make sense, they don’t follow magic bound laws

does that mean kallias sees viviane, who was in charge while he was UtM, as weak? no

if feyre wants to hate tamlin for not teaching her anything like girl at first u didn’t care about it and then u were traumatised and whisked away to nc, when was he suppose to teach u??

even if we ignore magic choosing the ruler rule….

she married a high lord and got her title, but she hasn’t earned it

it would be one thing if she worked after getting it through marriage but she hasn’t. all she did was destroy a court, attack lady autumn, look down on her citizens like her mate and opened a paint studio like?? that’s not ruling

“i’m the high lady of night court, i can do as i please” but u can’t honey, that’s not how it works

it’s a title she shows off but she doesn’t do the job it requires, and i don’t see how she is respected for it- for being a high lady

feyre hasn’t earned the title of being a high lady

she hadn’t even earned a position of power or a position in a court

for nesta, i don’t believe she’s ready nor has earned a title of a ruler either, but she is educated enough to be a part of a court

nesta was meant to married for power but it’s feyre who actually did

looking back, it’s crazy how much tamlin not naming her a high lady bothered her and she did no self reflection on it

[hitlikehammers]

tremolo

…what if instead of learning clarinet or percussion, you could learn to read the music of hearts? 💕

rating: t ♥️ cw: love at first sight, car crash (off-screen), SUCH FLUFF ♥️ tags: ✨magical realism au, musician eddie munson, paramedic steve harrington, kinda soulmates (it makes more sense with the magical realism part), character study, softness

for @steddielovemonth day one: "Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song. At the touch of love everyone becomes a poet." —Plato

It was just like learning any instrument, really.

At least what they tried to convince Eddie to believe at the tender age of nine.

But it was all about finding an aptitude, apparently. Developing a talent. Fourth grade rolls around and he fucks up blowing with a reed, manages to give himself a tongue splinter. Nearly passes out on the brass. Ends up with the choir lady looking over horn-rimmed glasses and narrowing her eyes at him less like a teacher and more like a fortune teller or something, scrying what’s to come of him, like she can see through all that he is and will be, before she goes scribbling something on his little slip of paper already marking all the failed kinds of music he’ll never get to make and telling him: go to Room 011.

But no one ever goes to Room 011.

He meets a petite woman with mousy hair and clothes that look like they belong to someone else, somehow. She introduces herself as Miss L. She looks like a Miss L., so he doesn’t think any further on the point.

You will not play much, really, she tells him, and the way she talks is kinda funny, like she learned words but not from people actually saying them out loud. Eddie kinda likes it, though. The playing is only for emergencies, and if you find your True Note.

Eddie doesn’t know what most of that means, except for the fact that the whole point of trying—and failing—at all the instruments was to join the school band with something to play. So if that’s not what he’s going to learn, then what the heck is Eddie meant to be doing down here—is what he wants to ask.

He manages a little politer version of the same, his nan’d be proud. His dad wouldn’t care even if he was around and not behind bars. His uncle might be happy that Eddie’s kept his nose clean just this one time. So he figures he does okay.

But really, he just wants an answer. He was supposed to get to learn music. It was the one thing that was keeping this whole year feeling like he could maybe, maybe survive it.

It also means he doesn’t have to take the art class that’s mostly kindergarten crafts instead of real art, so.

“You will be learning music,” Miss L. answers, more patient than most grownups; “you are here to learn how to read the songs that hearts sing.”

And that is, by far, in all of his whole nine years of living, the most fucking absurd sentence that Eddie has ever heard.

——

He’d kinda thought it was a joke, when he left that first afternoon to get back before Language Arts.

Turned out: nope. It was not.

He’d maybe thrown something slightly less childish than a tantrum, when what he got was a big set of earphones and a box the size of an Easy-Bake Oven, where apparently he’d be playing some kind of recordings to start his lessons.

“Do you not wish to learn?” Miss L. asked so simply, and Eddie…

Eddie reminded himself that no matter how foolish and stupid this was, it couldn’t possibly be worse than making construction paper collages with Elmer’s glue, so.

He put the headphones on and pressed play.

——

His workbooks didn’t look like anyone else’s in band—in fact, Eddie didn’t think he was actually a part of the class band, like, he wasn’t expecting to play at the spring concert with the flutes and the trombones, anymore. When he had sheets of staves to fill out they didn’t have straight lines. He didn’t draw different circles with little flags and bridges connecting them. He…

“When there are no keys, and there is no time signature,” Miss L. had explained, and it took time to make any sense; “you are the rules, and you feel what is a melody,” she’d tapped something that feltbeautiful, like daffodils blooming, though Eddie couldn’t say why; “and what is a warning.”

And then she’d tapped again, and it clenched in Eddie’s chest like a tornado siren, and…yeah.

That was kind of the best explanation he could have asked for.

——

It’s in middle school, when everyone else gets new band directors while Eddie sticks with Miss L., that it starts to…well.

That’s when the fact that Eddie’s alone in his lessons, and no one seems to know quite what he does—and the other kids who get that kind of treatment are usually the ones who can’t add or spell right, who have some kind of problem to work on extra hard—but it’s around then that Eddie starts being called names for it.

It’s not too bad, at first. Eddie’s worked for his two full years of elementary school lessons to get through recognizing the songs, suffers the point where recognizing becomes unbearable, overwhelming—Miss L. never left his side when he held his head in pain for all the noise, all the songs because they were everywhere, in everyone, and how was he supposed to learn what was right and what was good and what was just okay but then what was also everything the opposite when he couldn’t even think—

But she taught him the tools, the ways to sift through the chatter, as she called it. Because not all of it was a warning; not all of it was bad just because it wasn’t beautiful.

Some of the noise just was.

She showed him how to trust his own ear; his own song in his own chest as a guide, because that’s why he was here: he had a gift, an aptitude, built in and in need of development. Liked they’d said in the beginning.

He’s nearly thirteen when she teaches him how to write his own songs, in the not-notes and the no-tempos. In the nameless flow of sound.

It’s when his classmates overhear one of those works-in-progress, the taunting gets worse, starts to hedge toward unbearable.

Until Eddie asks if he can just stop: quit this. It’s not worth it. He doesn’t want to be a freak.

“It is a rite of passage, to ask this,” Miss L. says slowly, no judgement, and weirdly no pity; “but I should tell you first,” and her eyes narrow more than Eddie thinks he’s ever seen them.

“Your skill is already greater than any I have seen, and is only getting sharper, more keen.”

And hell if a teacher’s ever said something niceabout Eddie Munson, let alone something that sounds like flat-out praise.

“They cannot hear the music, this is why they say those things,” she flicks her wrist less like conducting a chorus and more like shooing a gnat, like that’s the appropriate amount of consideration the comments deserve. “Your task has always been to teach them what they do not know, to show them the wonder they are ignoring as they live and breathe.”

And while it really would have been nice to know that before signing up for this…this what, calling? Vocation?

While that would’ve been nice, Eddie…Eddie can at least mostly understand he wouldn’t have understood any of it in the fourth grade.

He barely understands now.

But he can feel it. He understands how to feel the music that fills all those gaps.

“This is common,” Miss L. turns back to him, steeples her fingers while humming something from the radio: not bad, but not beautiful. That’s what she means, he realizes. The radio plays common.

“This,” and she puts a hand over her own chest and keeps time with her fingers on the tabletop as she hums a wholly novel thing out of thin air, and Eddie has never seen someone else recognize the music, has never watched someone compose in the veins where the songs that hearts sing are played, let alone in real time; maybe she never had because he had to lean for himself, first.

But it is kind of exquisite to witness.

“This,” she stops, and raises a brow pointedly in Eddie’s direction; “is human, built in your cells.”

Eddie couldn’t name why, precisely, but he feels…shamed, but also empowered. So different, but they make an almost compelling melody together as they clash.

“They will call you freak before they call you prodigy,” Miss L. says it like a fact, which…kinda sucks to hear, in all honesty.

“They will label you insane, before they recognize you as genius,” and the way she adds that part makes him feel like that was her personal burden to bear, and he aches for her in it.

“They will cry out garbage and nonsense,” and here, these words: these are the ones Eddie knows immediately he’s meant to be hearing, be weaving into notes the strongest, the ones she wants him to keep closest and never lose:

“They will cry out worthless,” she spits out with a venom he’s never heard her use; “before they will sob in the face of your masterworks, and how they will breathe magic in the soul.”

And…Eddie doesn’t know exactly what to do in the face of the conviction she says that last part with. To doubt it, as he instinctively wants to, feels vile; the most egregious disrespect. He can’t bring himself to even try. So, he asks instead, voice rough:

“When will it change?”

Because despite everything: he doesn’t want to be a freak.

“That I cannot say,” she sighs, and she does sound sorry; “and it may never change at all.”

Eddie doesn’t know if he’s built to handle that, the possibility of never.

“But even if you leave, here and now,” Miss L. cuts into his despairing; “even if you stop your learning, the songs will never leave you.”

Oh.

Oh, so did they…did they teach him to hear a endless goddamn curse, and as a fucking kid—

“You would always have come to hear them,” Miss L. must read his mind, or maybe just his face; “just never with any place to funnel the noise,” and he…guesses he should be grateful. He nearly went mad in those early years, before she taught him how to make new melodies, concertos the likes of which even the great masters hadn’t penned, because they played in a different medium. Their notes and structured time were useful, but limited.

And if they never heard otherwise, how would even the most brilliant talents know what they were passing over, leaving behind?

“Do you still wish to leave?”

Eddie turns, almost having forgotten Miss L. was still sitting there, watching him. Almost having forgotten what he’d come to ask, to give up.

There’s no question left, now.

He gets out his notebook, his pen, and starts as he always does.

With the listening.

——

It’s a genuine distraction—the songs get louder with time, but Miss L. tells him that’s a sign of his skill growing, his notice of the equivalents of key signatures and ligature notes in the heartbeats he passes every day—but it costs him passing senior year once, and then again, and almost a third time until by the skin of his teeth, he manages. While every other teacher shames him for it, derides him as incurably stupid, or at the very least unambitious to the point of embarrassment, the extra years mean more time with Miss L., and Eddie…most days, Eddie is nothing but thankful.

More time means Eddie also learns that the songs he hears are as much a public service as they are an art form, as much a defense mechanism as a craft. He knows when bullies are on the prowl, and to make himself scarce for their screeching cacophonies. He knows when he has to be less of a coward and step in when a wild rhythm makes him sick with its fear.

The more he pays attention to the not-quite-beautiful songs—especially when he thinks on them later and stumbles upon nuggets of the exquisite inside every way they weren’t—the more he remembers years ago, out of almost nowhere, but maybe…maybe everywhere, like it’d been written in his heart’s song the day she spoke it:

“My first day,” he enters the same room—not the same-same room but the one in the high school that’s as abandoned as all of them have been, always Room 011—but he enters the room close to the end of the year, the last year, with the question thick on his tongue, and woven the same in his song as he closes the door and feels his heartbeat quicken for no reason and every reason, like he’s long learned these songs always do.

Miss L., for her part, just nods; waits.

“You said,” Eddie rolls his lips together; “emergencies.”

It’s a delay tactic. They both know it.

She’s kind to play along.

“Mmm,” she hums; “the slightest bits, yes, you can shift the rules to change the song, because you made the rules to begin with,” she eyes him carefully, then. “But only by bits, and in only the most dire moments.”

Yeah, yeah, sure. He never thought he could like…write lines to coax a heart to sing itself back from the dead or some shit. He gets the point.

Again, they both know: that’s not the point he’s here for, heart pounding high in his throat.

“But then you also said something else.”

This time, she doesn’t nod at all; just stares. Eddie has to clear his throat twice to make a sound so as to ask:

“What’s a True Note?”

Because Eddie’s had a couple flings here and there. And the idea of anything real with someone else, alongside the weight of this…talent of his, this training that’s defined half his life by now: it’s really nothing more than a stray idea. But Eddie can’t really hide from the fact that, somewhere along the way, he’s suffused that idea with so much promise and potential, but with no legs for it to fucking stand on.

And he’s about to graduate. About to go out into the world and…who the fuck knows what.

He needs to either hold onto this insane, silly notion of some cosmic meant-to-be match waiting for him somewhere, that it’s at least possible, and then hold on to it like burning—or let it go, and get on with the rest of his fucking life.

“Do you know how I said you could sway the rhythm just the littlest bit, in the greatest of need?”

Of course he did. She literally just said it.

“Your True Note will sing like you have never heard before,” she tells him like it’s not something…immense; “and that song will sway your rhythm so much more than the littlest of anything.”

She just fucking says it, like it isn’t already swaying the rhythm his heart sings in. Here and now.

“That heartsong will change your world.”

And all Eddie can even think to ask, to make more plain in it, is just one thing:

“Will I change theirs, too?”

Miss L’s eyes lock to his and hold for enough seconds where it should be uncomfortable, where his chest starts to grow unbearably tight.

“Hmm,” she considers finally; “if it is meant to be that way.”

Eddie wants to scream. It’s not enough.

And still somehow, it will have to be.

——

In the months that follow his freedom, he misses Miss L. Kinda desperately.

But the lack of structure, the openness of knowing he has to find a way to piece together all the snippets of song he’s bombarded with: it is the reason he ever picks up a guitar. It’s the whole learning heartsongs thing that he has to thank for it, a roundabout journey toward the destination he’d wanted from the beginning.

Or else, that he thought he did.

It’s not just guitar, though. He eventually learns the woodwinds without ending up with a splinter in his mouth. Figures out the different harmonies at hand in making sure he tempers the way he breathes for the brass. He loves the piano, and the cello especially, alongside guitar and double bass: he makes a trip back home specifically to see her and ask—Miss L. tells him it’s probably because of their strings, like hearts have, too.

It feels right in a way things haven’t felt in a very long time.

Which is really how he comes to not only understand, but to accept in his bones: no matter if they ever call him prodigy or genius, if he ever plays a concert hall or anywhere but on a street corner with an open case for change, he was made for this; built for this. The woman with the horn-rimmed glasses who sent him to the basement music room saw it in him. Miss L. proved it to him by teaching him to prove it to himself. He doesn’t know if he’d have picked it, but he knows it was never something he could have picked or turned down in the first place at all: it’s who he is.

He is the music. He is the songs that hearts use for singing. And maybe someday he’ll meet someone who sees it in him, and hears his song, and sings ecstatic. Maybe.

He hopes.

But either way: this is his life.

This is his melody.

——

It takes years before they do sob for his masterpieces, for them to be ready for a style and cadence they don’t understand because they will never comprehend the language, that speaks deeper than the logic required for any of those rules. It takes a long fucking time before they start listening with the lens of the first song any of them ever learned. But the time does come, and Eddie is grateful, because he’d genuinely feared the maybe-never he’d been warned about. He’s glad that’s not where he is, now.

But now? Things start to happen almost unbearably fast. Shows here and flights there, guest appearances and interviews, record labels and live recordings, a book deal he can’t even begin to think about. The world tips on its axis and Eddie only really considered that happening to him for one reason: because of a song so beautiful, in a Note so True—this isn’t that.

But everything still feels upside down anyway; totally off-kilter.

He’s crossed ten time-zones this time. He’s exhausted, but he has a performance tonight, just like he did in the tonight of the place he just left. The car he’s in on his way to the next venue is sleek, like they all are now; his team is already there preparing, so it’s just him and some local hires he hasn’t even had a chance to learn the names of yet, which he hates. He hates being privy to their songs and not even knowing their names, let alone their stories.

He jots the notes he gleans from how they sing without their words on the drive across town anyway. Waste not, and all that.

Eddie has the pen in hand, cap between his teeth, when the truck plows straight into them.

What follows would be unsurprising, if Eddie could process it from a bystander’s point of view—as it is, the only thing he knows in the melee is the music.

He is devastated, as he reaches out for the slowing songs around him, knowing in the back of his mind what their slacking tempos mean, and marveling with something like horror at how beautiful each one is as it starts to fade: still unique, still something Eddie could braid into a piece, certainly one to draw tears.

His own song is ebbing, he knows, but it’s less important than the sweet melodies around him, especially—

Oh.

Eddie thinks, with what may be the last thought left to him as pressure and heat and pain tingle at the edges of the music, almost too strong now to be drowned out by the notes that are what Eddie is at his core: but he thinks he may be too far gone already, because what he begins to hear is…

Exultant. It’s…

If Eddie believed in a heaven, this would be what the hosts there sang. When the idea of divinity is bandied about, they can only ever be talking about some cheap imitation of what Eddie hears now. Luminous. Effervescent.

Beautiful in a way that exceeds the word itself so deeply that it barely fits, obliterates the notion on sight.

And what a gift, Eddie muses as everything dims to black, to hear such Notes, such perfect music as the last thing he has to hold onto in the end.

To end on something that’s True.

——

The next tones Eddie hears are mechanical. He winces—not bad but certainly not beautiful—and then winces harder because wincing itself fucking hurts.

He holds himself still, seeks the song he knows in his own veins: yes, and he’d been so sure it was gone, because there’d be an accident, a crash, he’d been thrown, crushed, songs all around him were dying and he’d heard the magnificent symphony of otherworldly perfection so—

“I’m technically not supposed to be here,” a voice interjects, or no: drips in leisurely, like comfort, like honey; “because you’re a patient, and I’m,” and Eddie forces his eyes open to see the voice come out of a man, who is pointing at his chest: a uniform. Medical.

“I’m not dead?”

All signs do point that direction but…Eddie had been kinda fairly sure he was done for.

“God,” the man chokes like he’s pained, like the idea hurts him, and why; “no,” and he says that a little fiercely, protective almost; “though not for lack of an effort.”

He looks tired, as Eddie’s vision starts to clear some more. He looks radiant. Exquisite.

Beautiful.

“You saved me?”

Because Eddie clocks the uniform now: paramedic. The ones who come onto the scenes and try like hell to save who they can. Heroes.

“I helped,” the beautiful man says, like a hero would, of course. But…it still doesn’t make sense. If the man does this for his job, then Eddie isn’t special, so then why is he so vehement, and then what of all the fading songs Eddie remembers, because Eddie had heard—

“What about,” he starts, but there’s a hand over his quickly, soothing.

“Everyone’s here, different wards,” the hero-beauty tells him in lows tones; “we don’t know if they’ll all make it through the night, but,” he nods, like…this is enough.

And it is. Except…

“How?”

And where Eddie is baffled, his hero just quirks a brow.

“Don’t tell me you never covered emergencies?” he asks skeptically. “Most dire moments, greatest of need?”

And it’s with those words that Eddie’s world slows very quickly to a halt. The music swells in a way he’s never known: because it’s always present to hear.

Buts it’s never been so tangible to feel, not like this, and with such…magnificence, no lesser word could touch it. Maybe he truly is closer to death than not, maybe that’s the reason for the fervor in this man he doesn’t know—the choirs of the angels Eddie wasn’t banking on swells and is visceral, and this hero sits before him, speaks the words that have haunted Eddie more days of his life than not, and—

“This was where the music took my life,” the man pulls at his collar, indicative again: the heroism. He…he saves people, because he, he also hears…

“But I couldn’t have done it without you.”

His hand on Eddie’s tightens, like gratitude, and Eddie…gapes like a fucking fish, and then—

“There’s something else.”

“Not just here to check up on the fruits of your medical miracle?” Eddie’s tongue feels heavy, thick in his mouth; he feels sluggish all over, weighted down and like he can barely move because…this man hears the music that hearts make.

Can he hear the ineffable beauty, like Eddie can? He must, that’s how it works, so why is he not in the same amount of awe—

“Not just,” the man smiles small, but real, a little hesitant. A little…shy, maybe, before he straightens, leans a little closer.

“Watch that screen,” and he tracks Eddie’s gaze until Eddie’s fixed upon the ECG, the most disappointing distillation of the songs he’s learned to find so much wonder in.

But then the man is pressing Eddie’s hand to his own chest, which…is forward, given they don’t even know each other.

Eddie is maybe still on, or at least just-recently-off, death’s door, and either way he’s fucking thrilledwith this development, warm beneath his palm.

“Now count.”

It only takes a moment, to put the gestures together into a statement.

The beat under his touch matches the line across the screen. Exactly.

But this man’s not the one attached to the monitor.

“Got it?”

Eddie nods, and the man doesn’t hesitate, lifts Eddie’s hand and presses it back to Eddie’s own chest.

“Again.”

And that’s…that’s not the same rhythm as the one on the screen; the songs don’t match at all.

But Eddie can still hear the one that does—the beauty. The exaltation.

“Can you,” Eddie asks, lifts his finger that’s got a clip on it, and the man’s a professional, he’ll understand—looks less than conflicted about disconnecting Eddie from wires and leads before clipping his own finger and letting the screen shift to a new cadence.

The same one under Eddie’s hand, in Eddie’s own chest.

“Holy fuck.”

“Yeah,” the man barely breathes, and Eddie notices now how intense his eyes are, focused solely on Eddie, and…Eddie remembers the words that came after the ones about emergencies. About how little he could help, but that he could still do something.

But with only one person, it could be—

“You didn’t just sway my rhythm,” Eddie half-gasps; “you made it your own.”

And oh: Eddie never tied the song of hearts to the song of laughter, but from this man, the huff of incredulous joy that slips from him now—they’re made wholly of the same stuff.

Symphonic. Staggering. Weeping to feel this much, in the soul, to be privy to such a…

Masterpiece.

“Worked both ways, it seems.”

“I heard you,” Eddie blurts out, because it makes sense now; “before I, when I thought I was,” dying, when he thought it was all over; “like I’ve never heard anything before.”

And now: of course this man hears the heavenly movement Eddie thought was a mercy before the end but was instead the arrival of everything he’d ever hoped to one day find, literally coming to rescue him in more ways than one; but that song is somehow commonplace to this unfathomable angel on the earth.

And what this man hears stronger, louder, dearer seems somehow to be Eddie, the song he sings from the chest, in how it’s causing those caramel eyes to glimmer, and to barely blink lest they miss something in just…Eddie.

“You never stopped,” the man says with urgency, with feeling; “your song never stopped,” and then he’s closing his eyes and laying both his hands over his own chest, where Eddie’s heartsong is ringing full and maybe changing his world, because the song in Eddie’s chest sure as hell has already changed his, and—

“It’s extraordinary.”

And Eddie, in years of ridicule, in months of celebration, in all the ups and downs and doubts and hopes this life of songs and hearts and rhythms and beats has left him with, in all of it—

Those two words rewrite his whole fucking being.

“True Note,” Eddie mouths more than speaks before he scoffs; “shit, but that seems like a really fucking inadequate thing to call it,” and his eyes lift to take in the man who he knows, he knows is going to be his magnum opus, or more: is going to write the magnum opus they will be and breathe and share from here to all ends:

“To call you.”

And there’s the clearest sense of a trip in a beat, but who it belongs to isn’t clear, and maybe that’s the reality for them both now: every subtlety of the song is now shared, now theirs.

“You could start with Steve.”

Eddie looks up, breath a little heavy, but the smile on the man’s face is broad and kind of overjoyed, kind of looks like Eddie’s chest feels:

“My name’s Steve.”

And that?

Best damn title for a symphony Eddie’s ever fucking heard.

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @dreamy-jeans137 @estrellami-1 @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here @pukner @ravenfrog @rebellatlas @sadisticaltarts @samsoble @sanctumdemunson @shrimply-a-menace @slashify @stealthysteveharrington @swimmingbirdrunningrock @theheadlessphilosopher @theintrovertedintrovert @themoonagainstmers @theohohmoment @tillystealeaves @tinyloonyteacups @tinyplanet95 @warlordess @wheneverfeasible @wordynerdygurl @wxrmland @yesdangerpls @yourmom-isgay @1-tehe-1

divider credit here

[solargeist]

Can Xelqua use his powers to avoid Grian’s Eyes? I’m imagining Xelqua getting mad at Grian or Grian getting mad at him and so Xelqua runs away for a bit and Grian panics because he can’t use his Eyes to find his kid

Oooooh ! Thats a funny idea, tho i always imagine the Eyes as like... spectator mode..? So Grian would have to already sorta know where Xelqua is to find him with the Eyes. Weird eyes just zooming around the map, x-raying, night vision....

Xelqua doesn't exactly know what hes doing with his Watcher powers, a lot of it comes just from his emotions since he's so young. If he's upset enough, maybe he can block Grian's eyes with his own ? Maybe ? He definitely has more than him.

Typically when Xelqua is upset with Grian, he'll tattle to Mumbo, or any close Hermit, its usually quite childish !

Grian has gotten really good at not getting mad at Xelqua--at least not showing it. This was different in the beginning of course, before he adjusted. Back in season 9 he'd often get annoyed with him and overwhelmed then. Which... I think could be a fun turning point in their dynamic.. Grian and Xelqua getting mad at each other, Grians exhausted and just not in the mood to go play outside or whatever, he snaps and uses the Good Ole "Because I said so !" argument towards Xelqua. Xelqua stomps his little feet and goes off to pout while Grian sighs heavily in a chair, he does feel way over his head, he really has a kid now ? He's practically still one himself ! Sorta, it feels like it sometimes.

Xelqua would gather courage while he's pouting, Grian doesn't ever let him go out, its not fair, he's always busy and rarely funny. Xelqua quietly goes out the door as soon as he hears Grian go to the bathroom or something.

Xelqua is not quick, he has tiny legs, he doesn't make much of a distant, but he's small, so he disappears quickly behind or under things.

Grian's panic is amplified by his Watcher instincts, losing sight of something--of a child--its a suffocating feeling, no matter how he felt moments ago. His little house in s9 is surrounded by water, he hates using Watcher magic, but theres no choice here, little purple eyes shoot out in every direction as his mind imagines the worst possible outcomes. Xelqua immediately catches the feeling of Eyes and its scary ! So against his own will, his own Eyes block Grian's. (Which doesn't help Grian's panic at all) Xelqua's instincts will always protect him, he's small, he's 5 years old, but the Watcher part of his brain is still watching out for him. Even though Grian is no threat to him, the Eyes feel scary, so they have to be blocked.

When Grian finally spots Xelqua, he uses his wings to propel himself forward to scoop Xelqua up. Xelqua barely has time to react. Grian lands a few steps ahead, still frazzled and holding Xelqua in his hands, his worry pours out mistakenly as anger. Where have you been ? Don't you know how dangerous it is here ? Grian realizes he's accidentally shouting and bites his tongue. He lets go of Xelqua and hugs him instead, which is probably the first time he's held him so tightly before while on the ground. Xelqua doesn't really know how to react to this, he thought he was in trouble, but ..? A little confusing !

Xelqua had probably JUST found a Hermit too, who was patiently and politely trying to get him to stay still while they contacted Grian. They can tell from Grian's reaction that Xelqua was definitely lying and did not get permission to walk around by himself (what a surprise)

Seeing Grian so stressed out probably pushes a few Hermits to ~gently remind Grian that hey.... you know you can always text us when you need help with him... any time !! any ! time !

Its a turning point for their dynamic, and a learning experience for both

[alittlegiraffe]

Title: All That Matters (Part 2)

Part 3

You didn’t expect things to magically fix themselves overnight.

Just because you had told Marshall how you felt—just because he had seen it, felt it, promised you that you were everything—didn’t mean the doubts disappeared instantly.

But he was trying.

You saw it in the little things.

Like how he kept his phone on him more, making sure he answered your calls immediately, no matter where he was.

Or how he sent pictures of himself during press runs, just to show you that nothing shady was happening—just him, a bunch of guys, and a whole lot of waiting around.

Or how he’d slip into bed at night and pull you against him before he even took off his shoes, like he needed to feel you to breathe again.

But the real moment—the moment you knew things were really shifting—happened a few weeks later.

---

You hadn’t planned on going.

It was another big event, another industry party full of people you didn’t really know, full of women who did belong in that world, and the idea of standing in the background while Marshall worked the room made your chest tighten.

So when he asked if you wanted to come, you shrugged and said, “It’s probably not my scene.”

And for the first time in a long time, instead of just accepting that, he pushed.

“The fuck does that mean?”

You sighed, adjusting your earrings in the mirror. “It means I don’t wanna be the awkward wife hovering in the corner while you do your thing.”

Marshall frowned, moving to stand behind you. “Baby, you are my thing.”

You rolled your eyes. “You know what I mean.”

He was quiet for a beat. Then he slipped his arms around your waist, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “I ain’t goin’ without you.”

You blinked. “Marshall—”

“I mean it,” he murmured, holding you tighter. “If you don’t wanna go, then neither do I.”

You turned in his arms, studying him. “You have to go.”

He shook his head. “Not without you.”

Your throat tightened. “Why are you being so stubborn?”

“Because I don’t want you thinkin’ for one second that you ain’t important. That you ain’t my world.” His blue eyes locked onto yours, fierce and unshakable. “Ain’t no point in showin’ up to shit like that if I ain’t got the person I wanna show off with me.”

You swallowed hard, heart hammering.

Then, finally, you sighed and muttered, “You’re such a pain in the ass.”

He grinned. “Yeah, but you love me.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. “Yeah. I do.”

---

The event wasn’t as bad as you thought.

Maybe because Marshall never left your side.

He didn’t just introduce you as his wife—he made sure people saw you. He kept his hand on your back, kissed your temple between conversations, whispered dumb jokes in your ear just to make you laugh.

And the women?

They were there, sure. But you didn’t feel like you were in their shadow anymore.

Because Marshall made sure you weren’t.

When you got home that night, kicking off your heels and sighing in relief, he wrapped his arms around you from behind.

“See?” he murmured against your neck. “Told you.”

You turned, raising an eyebrow. “Told me what?”

“That you’re the only one who matters.”

Your heart clenched, warmth flooding your chest.

So maybe things weren’t magically fixed overnight.

But as long as Marshall kept proving to you that you were his everything—

You knew you’d be okay.

[g0nta-g0kuhara]

[Taken from under the cut]

"The localization definitely did change some things about the portrayal of Angie’s religion, but I would hesitate to say that they changed the overall feel or messages of Chapter 3. The original was already pretty… well, I don’t know if “atheistic” is the best term for it, but the point of Chapter 3 in the original was definitely to have a kind of clash between western and eastern religion that reached a boiling point. I don’t think any of the general negativity associated with Angie and her cult, or Korekiyo and his séances, was impacted by NISA so much as it was already there in Kodaka’s writing.

As far as I could tell when playing the localization, in fact, Korekiyo’s translator didn’t change or alter much about his dialogue. Other than the “Kiyo” nickname, I agreed with most of the choices they made (translating “Kagoinu Village” and the “Kagonoko Ritual” as the “Caged Dog Village” and “Caged Child Ritual” respectively were really good choices or a localization, in fact, since they made them easier to understand). All of the reveals that happen in the post-trial (as in, those reveals, about his sister) were adapted pretty straightforwardly from the original. Nothing was cut or altered significantly; his motives really were that messed-up.

As for Angie, the term “brainwashing” actually is a direct translation and not something altered or swayed by the localization! The term 洗脳 (“sennou”) comes up as early as Chapter 2 in both the original and the localization. I believe the first instance of it is in an optional dialogue session with Himiko on the night of Saihara’s first training session, where she mentions that she should’ve “had [Angie] undo her brainwashing sooner.” The following morning, when discussing Himiko’s magical show, Angie is pretty quick to change the subject and avoids answering any questions when she’s asked by the rest of the group what she did to Himiko.

What’s more, there seems to be a very intentional correlation between Angie’s talent and Mitarai’s. While not entirely the same, the two bear definite similarities which come to light especially if you do Angie’s FTEs. In her third FTE with Saihara (her 5th overall if you did Kaede’s), she shows Saihara a picture she was painting, only for him to lose consciousness immediately upon looking at it. When he wakes up again and asks her if there’s anything intrinsically special about the painting itself, she says she’s not sure, and that she just “creates her art exactly the way god tells her to.”

It’s pretty heavily implied (more like confirmed, in her FTEs at least) that her artwork is how she gets people to listen to her and do what she asks, both on her home island and within the religious student council she sets up. There definitely seems to be a much larger degree of free will involved with her abilities than there was with Mitarai’s, the game is pretty emphatic about the fact that she does brainwash people to go along with her ideas. The effectiveness of her brainwashing is up for debate, though; Saihara remains pretty unaffected in his FTEs with her despite her best attempts to force him to marry her, Tenko was only pretending to join the student council in order to keep an eye on Himiko, and I highly doubt Tsumugi was ever actually brainwashed because of, well, reasons.

Overall, the general feeling with Angie (in the narrative at least) seems to be that she was someone whose intentions weren’t necessarily bad, but that she still did some pretty unsavory stuff nonetheless. It’s pretty clear that she does, in fact, want the killing game to end—she’s one of the most outspoken characters of the opinion that “greed” and “desire” only lead people to commit murder, and that they’d all be better off staying within the school and making it comfortable for themselves, rather than continuing to try and escape the school.

Unlike other characters who have brought up similar plans before, like Celes, I think Angie did genuinely believe what she was saying, too. There’s an optional dialogue moment in Chapter 4 if you click on the door to Angie’s lab while exploring around the school, where Saihara pretty much outright says that he couldn’t agree with her methods, but that he does realize that she was trying to stop the killing game in her own way, then follows up with a really nice comment about how he’ll never forget her. He has similar comments for most of his classmates following their deaths in each subsequent chapter, but I thought it was a really nice touch nonetheless.

As you point out though, if there is a fault in the localization to be found, it’s in changing Angie’s god altogether from a very general, unspecific god to “Atua.” Ever since I heard about that particular localization decisions, I couldn’t agree with it for a number of reasons, not least of all that it’s extremely disrespectful, as Atua is an actual, real deity in Polynesian mythology. Adapting a real-life deity and applying it to a character whose backstory, island, and god are all deliberately undefined (and fictional) is a very bad choice all around.

Angie already suffers from a lot of bad, racist writing tropes on Kodaka’s part in the original. It’s pretty clear that since she’s both dark-skinned and a “foreigner” (and we don’t know anything regarding whether her pre-game self is actually a foreigner or not) she was designed to be the “exotic, quirky island girl” whose religions and culture teeter between baffling and downright creepy.

The portrayal of her island’s religion and customs already isn’t positive in the original game; between “blood sacrifices,” purchasing organs and children off of the internet, and the hypersexualization of both Angie and her people (she tries to take off Saihara’s clothes in the same FTE I mentioned before, and there’s a lot of talk about the people on her island “comforting” each other sexually or “sharing the bride” at weddings), it feels like Kodaka was just one step short of calling them “un-civilized,” which is… eugh.

Taking all of that messy and unsavory writing and directly correlating it with actual Polynesian culture and mythology is such an incredibly disrespectful decision, moreso when I highly doubt that Angie’s translator for the localization is Polynesian themselves or did any actual research into the subject. There was no need to slap a name onto Angie’s god in the first place—her island and culture are still entirely undefined in-game, so why NISA felt that her religion needed to be equated with a real-life one is still beyond me.

Other than the general racism though, I don’t think a lot of the rest of Angie’s dialogue was changed. There was a brief, optional line in the bonus mode when she comes to invite you for a date where her translator decided to have her say “Alola!” (which, you know, a Pokemon region based on Hawaii isn’t even the same as the Polynesian islands, but okay), but otherwise her translation was pretty faithful to the original dialogue. I think her translator didn’t have too much of a problem capturing the feeling of her character; their main problem was simply the decision to make an unnecessary correlation between Angie’s fictional, made-up religion and all its negative aspects and with actual Polynesian religion and culture.

Overall, I think a lot more of the issue stems back to Kodaka’s own racism and flawed writing, though. I don’t think he was trying to leave a message of “religion = bad, always” in Chapter 3 so much as he was just… unaware of how it might come across to others. Religion in Japan is decidedly different from religion in the west, so it’s important to remember that Kodaka was writing from a Japanese perspective, rather than an all-around western atheistic perspective. He definitely wanted a sort of clash of ideas between Angie’s very foreign, western, cult-like religion, and Korekiyo’s research into eastern culture and spirituality, but the writing got… well, very messy along the way.

This is just my take on it all, anyway! The association with Angie’s religion and “brainwashing” was definitely there in the original game, even very early on, but I do think the localization would’ve improved overall if it hadn’t bothered trying to put a real name to any of it. Thank you for asking this question by the way—it’s always good to clear this kind of stuff up, especially since all of the “Atua” changes must make it really difficult for anyone playing the localization to know how much else was or wasn’t changed in Angie’s dialogue. I hope I could clear a few things up!"

here's a question ive had since the localization came out; did the localization do anything to enforce more of an athiestic bent and put angie and shinguji in a more negative light wrt religion and spirituality (particularly angie)? or has that always been there? the whole "brainwashing" angle felt p harsh, not to mention saying angie's god outright is Atua instead of the general "my god" that the translations seemed to have. plus akamatsu seemed very internally harsh about her god in their FTEs

The localization definitely did change some things about theportrayal of Angie’s religion, but I would hesitate to say that they changedthe overall feel or messages of Chapter 3. The original was already pretty…well, I don’t know if “atheistic” is the best term for it, but the point ofChapter 3 in the original was definitely to have a kind of clash betweenwestern and eastern religion that reached a boiling point. I don’t think any ofthe general negativity associated with Angie and her cult, or Korekiyo and his séances,was impacted by NISA so much as it was already there in Kodaka’s writing.

Keep reading

[adrift-in-thyme]

Febuwhump Day 4: Blowtorch (Twilight & Time)

Read on Ao3

CW for burn wounds, torture, and vomiting

---------------------------------------------------

The door opens on squealing hinges. The Shadow enters like a fleeting phantom. He walks to the jangle of chains and the screams of the dying. A visage of shadow, eyes of crimson; the cap of the hero, tunic and trousers to match — when Twilight raises his head, he is certain he is gazing at his own twisted reflection. 

“I must say…” Dark lips part to showcase teeth of palest white, pulling upward in a sneering grin. “I am quite glad you are here.”

Twilight shifts. The manacles encasing his wrists rub painfully. The ground is ruthlessly cold and agonizingly hard. His head still throbs with remnant whispers of darkest magic.

“I’m not sittin’ here by any wish of my own, I promise you,” he snaps. 

His lips are cracked. The sharp flavor of blood ignites his tongue. His stomach churns in protest. 

“No?” 

The Shadow stalks towards him. There had been light in this room before he entered, scanty though it may have been. But now it leaves. Flames of torches are snuffed out, thin threads of sunlight sent back through the cracks they had dared to venture through. All there is now is darkness and shadow. The air is stifling with the scent of pain. 

“You put up so little of a fight that I believed….Oh, never mind.” He shakes his head. His expression is a mockery of concern. “I was mistaken, I suppose. And here I was feeling excited about having you here.”

He reaches out, quick as lightning. His fingers are clammy and clawing upon Twilight’s skin as he grasps his chin. He leans forward, breath ghosting the hero’s cheek. 

“After all, we are rather well acquainted, aren’t we, little wolf?”

Twilight bares his teeth in snarl, jerks away from the touch. It spurs memories of thrashing in murky darkness, of screaming soundlessly, fighting a battle he could never win. Of warm blood and icy tears and the prickle of fever up his spine. Of the desperate voices of his brothers filling his ears, telling him, begging him to never give up.

To fight.

“What?” He growls. “You still sore about losing that battle? You still mad you had to become a knuckle just to try and get the upper hand?”

It’s his turn to lean forward now, his turn to sneer. 

“I warned you, Shadow. You forget where the strength that honed that sword into its magnificence comes from. You underestimate us. All of us.”

The Shadow’s expression spasms for a split second. A spark of fury come and gone. Then, his face stretches into a sinister grin. A series of shivers run a lap around Twilight’s spine.

“You heroes are always so comical. I love it! Truly!” His voice, his laugh drips with sarcasm. “You with all of your bravado and spouted admonishments. It’s wonderful! No wonder the goddesses love you so.”

He cocks his head, a disturbing imitation of the small birds Twilight often converses with. “How unfortunate for her to have to bid farewell to one so soon.”

It happens so quickly that Twilight does not have time to process it. One moment, the Shadow’s hands are empty. The next, he is waving something long and slender and deepest crimson with the grace of a dancer. 

Twilight’s eyes blow wide at the same time as light returns to the tiny space in an eruption of red-orange agony. 

Panic skewers his heart with all the precision of a soaring arrow. Escape is not an option. He could not have attempted it even if it were. He is frozen, held in place by bonds that do not pinch and scratch at tender skin, do not jingle at movement or yank tugging arms back. 

In a swirling, roaring rush of fierce hues and vicious heat the flames make contact with his body. Agony strikes like lightning burning the horizon. It courses through him, searing flesh, cracking bone, lapping up the blood that races to match the erratic thumping of his heart. 

The terror within grows and expands, turns to something far worse. The desperation beasts feel when iron entraps them. The fear and fury that drives them to gnaw off limbs in an attempt to evade pain’s terrible embrace.

Twilight begins to thrash. The chains sing with the movement. The Shadow laughs. The flames arrive again, make contact, spread hungrily along scorched skin and soft fabric. 

He feels them pounding in his skull, feels them screeching in his heart and veins and soul. 

“Beast!”

Torches in the night, held aloft by hands that guided him as a child, fished fallen toys out of the stream, offered trinkets and food and song, taught him how to care for the animals he has always loved so deeply.  

Gasping, Twilight shoves himself to his feet. He surges forward, seeing nothing but red.

Horrible, cursed red.  

“Monster!”

He makes it two stumbling steps before the chains go taut and he comes crashing down. 

An arrow in his flank. Fire in his fur. 

“He took our children!”

“Kill him! Kill him now! Before he takes more from us!”

A lump rises in his throat, pulls it excruciatingly tight. He chokes on it, gags on the acrid scent of burning flesh and hair. Tears burst beneath tightly shut eyelids and dissipate before they even reach his cheeks. His lungs fill with ash and smoke.

“Do you still feel strong, hero?” 

The hands that prop him up shake violently. He cannot tell where the pain ends and the fear begins. They are intertwined, tangled in a dreadful knot in the depths of his gut, branching out along every vein and nerve. 

A foot catches his side, sends him toppling once more. Twilight cries out as seared flesh makes contact with rough stone. Gritting his teeth, he raises bloodshot eyes. Shadows smear eerily in the demonic glow of flame. Crimson eyes are nearly indecipherable from that which tears him apart.

“Do you still feel courageous?” The Shadow glides forward, a poe about to swing its axe down. “Or do you feel the pain that I felt with every blow you dealt me?” 

An icy grip closes around Twilight’s neck. The clash of cold and heat are nauseating, like a fever raging in his bones. The air, so thick with smoke, now fails to reach him at all.

He chokes. Desperate, bloodied fingers raise up to claw at the hand that holds him.

His mind registers nothing save for endless agony and the terrified desire to breathe. 

“Stop.” 

The word bubbles from his lips in a voice so hoarse it hardly sounds like his own. Pride is all but forgotten in his dizzy need for salvation. 

He feels scared and small, a mere pup cowering before an evil he cannot fight. Everything burns. 

“Please,” he croaks. “Please, stop.”

The Shadow smiles. Twilight’s surroundings grow dim and blurred. 

“No,” he purrs, as silken and unmoving as the darkness he thrives in.

“You would do well to obey his plea,” says a voice without form. It rises from the doorway, though Twilight had not heard it open. 

His gaze flits there, searches for the person he knows stands there.

“Time…” He is too far gone to keep the name from slipping from his lips. 

The Shadow retracts his grip and whirls in the same motion. A dark blade splits the atmosphere. In the seconds before he collapses, Twilight sees that it makes contact with another. Their collision reverberates through his aching skull. 

The room explodes into light and sound and sensation. Twilight plummets within it. He catches snippets. A blue scarf flying with gallant delicacy. A swath of soaring blades. The crackle of distant thunder. The whisper of countless flying arrows. 

“Go!” Warriors’ voice rises above the cacophony of noise. “We’ll handle this!”

In the next moment, Time is kneeling beside him. He places what looks to be a mask into his pouch and pulls out a bottle in its stead. Quickly, he unscrews the cap. A fairy flits forth and heads straight for Twilight.

He closes his eyes as its magic surrounds him. Sweet and fresh and blessedly cool, he sags beneath its caress.

When, with utmost care, Time maneuvers him into his arms, he hardly knows it. He is only aware of this new warmth that is so different from the stifling one of before. He curls into the older hero’s hold.

“Old man,” he gasps, fingers clutching at his tunic sleeve.

“I’ve got you, pup.” 

The voice rumbles like the thunder of an incoming storm. A heart beats steadily in his ears. Twilight begins to lose himself in the sound of it. 

“You’re safe. I’m sorry it took us as long as it did.”

Twilight sighs. He feels weightless now. Darkness comes for him. Within its embrace, he floats.

“Thanks for comin’ for me,” he murmurs, words slurred.

Time holds him closer. He begins to move. Out of the dungeon of fire and fear. Out from beneath the Shadow’s suffocating grasp.

“I will always come for you, Link.” The promise sings in Twilight’s ears, a cool breeze after a breathless day. 

A stone wall bound to falter and determined not to.

He clings to it, to the sound of Time’s voice, the safety of his hold. And the final words, when they hit the air, cements the certainty of this courageous truth. They pierce through to his very soul. 

“And I will never allow him to touch you again.”

[banditomojado]

ATTENTION I HAVE FOUND A NEW SHOW TO OBSESS OVER. THE FOLLOWING IS A BRIEF BREAKDOWN OF ALL THE MAIN CHARACTERS AND WHY I LOVE THEM/WOULD DIE FOR THEM ALREADY.

Mild spoilers for the first 5 episodes of The Legend of Vox Machina!

Oh boy, where do I begin!!! I have always been a lover of fantasy ever since I saw LOTR as a young child! Unfortunately, I didn't grow up around friends who were into the genre so I was never exposed to things like D&D. But fear not, folks like me! You need not be a D&D veteran to enjoy this show! Okay, so let's start talking about the characters featured in this party!

First up, the twins! Specifically here, Vex'ahlia "Vex" Vessar! So I love that the series features a sibling pair. Vex, at least in the first few episodes, seems to be the de facto leader of the group. She's a half-elf, half-human, a ranger-type, a badass archer and skilled warrior. The group, especially her brother, seems to look to her for guidance and commands in a lot of situations. She's so cool and has a strong presence in every scene. She has a dry wit, always on point with her verbal jabs. I've only known her for a day, and already I would trust her with my life. I do feel like she is a little too controlling of her twin brother, but so far she hasn't done anything too awful besides passive-aggressively disapproving of her brother's budding attraction to another member of the party, but more on that later!

And now for her brother, Vax'ildan "Vax" Vessar! He is a rogue-like character, specializing in daggers and throwing knives, and stealthy combat. He is also a wizard at picking locks. Much like his sister, he maintains a cool, mysterious aura about him, and he seems to come in handy whenever the situation calls to be sneaky. LOVE that the series has heavily implied he's a bi-king, featuring several scenes in the first five episodes where he flirts with both male and female characters. I love his relationship with his sister, you can already tell they have been through a lot and have helped each other survive it all, although it could prove troublesome if he does in fact decide to pursue a certain other half-elf, half-human member of the party...

Speaking of which, up next is Keyleth of the Air Ashari! She is a druid, capable of a wide array of magical abilities like controlling plant-life and shape-shifting into different kinds of animals! She's so cool, but she also has a sort of "fresh-out-of-college-stumbling-through-life" kind of vibe that I find utterly adorable. She's awkward, messes up a lot, struggles with self-esteem issues, but always tries her absolute best and has already saved the party from certain death a few times. I'm a sucker for flawed, awkward characters who carry the weight of the world on their shoulders and are just trying to do their best. Apparently she is currently on a ritualistic quest (Aramenté) to prove herself to her people so she can one day lead them and is not allowed to return until she has done so. So much pressure on my girl! She is obviously attracted to Vax, and I think they would make a cute couple, but something tells me that things won't quite work out for them...

Up next is Percival "Percy" Fredrickstein von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III! He is by far the "edgiest" member of the group. He is a human gunslinger, a somewhat surprising set of skills for a fantasy setting, but it fits into this world perfectly! He's incredibly skilled with his gun, very smart, and by far the most sophisticated of the party. He comes from royalty, after all, and the first five episodes reveal how that life was ripped from him following a violent coup d'état which resulted in the slaughter of his entire family. So needless to say, my man has some baggage. He seems to possess a darker side to him that only appears when he is in a state of rage. He is very scary when in that state, and even carries around a plague doctors mask for such occasions. Revenge stories are a favorite of mine, as they always manage to provide the character seeking revenge with immensely satisfying/cathartic arcs, so I'm very much excited to see where the story takes him! I also think it's very telling that he is the sole human character of the party, it explains his inclination towards the dark side!

Next up we have Pike Trickfoot! She is a gnome cleric, capable of magical abilities like healing and conjuring up light-based energy shields. She is a fascinating character, given that her magic stems from heavily religious beliefs, though she seems to revel in violent situations and vices like binge drinking. She is a sweetheart, always looking out for the other members of the party, but also not afraid to go toe-to-toe with an enemy! The first five episodes see her lose connection to the Everlight, a kind of goddess that is the source of her magical abilities, thus she is forced to separate from the group. This was a huge bummer, because I really enjoyed her interactions with the other members of the party, especially her close friendship with the next member of the group I'll be talking about!

Next up is Grog Strongjaw! He is a Goliath barbarian, specializing in brute strength and combat with his mighty ax. Normally I'm not that interested in big, buff, warrior-like characters, but he's an absolute delight! He provides a lot of the show's comedic relief, due in large part to his limited wit and insatiable desire for bloodshed. He is big and dumb, but full of heart and determination to keep his friends safe, especially Pike, who he seems to share an especially close bond with. LOVE that he calls her "Pikey"! Having to see them go their separate ways so early into the series was definitely upsetting (seeing him cry over not being able to feel her presence while they were apart was precious), but I'm glad the group still has his brute strength to rely on if things get hairy.

And finally, we have Scanlan Shorthalt! He is a gnome bard, who also seems to possess a few magical abilities via his lute, such as being able to conjure up a large, floating purple hand. He is by far the main source of comedic relief of the group, crass and hedonistic, with an admirable ability for quick wit. He is also the group's resident slut, never wasting an opportunity to possibly get laid. He also appears to be bi, which is lovely. Comic relief characters often hide the saddest backstories, so I'm excited to delve more into his past and learn more about him. He also seems to have a crush on Pike, which is just absolutely adorable, although based on how he acts around the group, it's no wonder nothing has happened between them yet. Better wait until he grows up a bit, Pikey.

So far, the series has given me plenty of reasons to love each member of the party, and the writing for them has so far been excellent! Love their various little interactions, I think you could pair off or group any member together and you would still get a satisfying story/adventure. Five episodes in and I'm completely hooked! If anyone who is a fan of the show wants to watch along with me, let me know! I know I'm super late to the party, but I would LOVE to discuss the story with someone! I'm aware that these characters existed long before the Amazon show and that the show itself was a result of a large fan-funded campaign, so I'm especially eager to get to talk to fans who have been there from the very beginning!

[alpaca-clouds]

Why did Raphael take little Enver?

Okay. I wanted to talk about this, given that I do write a lot about the grimy gremlin - Gortash that is. Because I have thought a lot about it and the game does not give a clear answer. According to the game Raphael at some point showed up at the Flymm household, in his human appearance, claimed he was a warlock and he saw potential in the boy, offering to buy him for money.

And then he dragged little Enver to hell, where he kept him for an unspecified time, which eventually basically caused most of the plot to happen. Because chances are, that without Enver being in the hell, he would not have learned about the Crown of Karsus, and hence nobody would come up with the rather convoluted plan of putting the Crown onto a fucking elderbrain.

And I think I am pretty sure what Raphael wanted. I think that Raphael for the most part wanted his own personal pet warlock, and he thought he could have it this way.

Notably the game treats Enver as a warlock in regards to his class. Sure, had the game had the arteficer class, maybe he would have been that, but so far I consider Gorts being treated as a warlock as a good indicator. Plus, the Flymm parents were off the opinion that Enver would learn warlockery or something.

See, pretty much all warlock patrons have this one nasty problem: Sure, they can make rules for their little warlock, but they tend to still have their own ideas about stuff. They can usually find ways to lie or trick themselves out of their contracts and what not. I mean, we see it with Mizora and Wyll, and how usually Wyll will try to get out of the contract.

Sure, some people get along splendid with their patrons, but especially when you are a devil, this is not a given. Especially given the fact that part of the entire contract will always be the warlock ending up in hell to fight in the Blood War. So, yeah, there tends to be a lot of trickery going on.

So, come in Raphael: "If I fetch myself a child with a bit of magic potential and raise that child and beat it into submission, before making the child my warlock, I would have my personal pet warlock, who I can then use as a political pawn on the physical plane." I assume he thought it would be pretty easy to raise a human child. Which he undoubtedly found out it was not.

But we know Raphael loves to have his fingers in many pies at once, and I assume his plan was, that he would use Enver as a pawn to throw around as his eyes and ears on the physical plane, so that he could have a spy. Which is also why I assume, he would have beaten a lot of upper class behavior into him.

Now of course, the question is: How far did he get with this plan before he got bored and just left little Enver to his own devices? That is really not clear. Just as we do not know for how long Enver was in the House of Hope as a prisoner. It might have been three or four years or more than ten. We have no clear idea from all I can see.

But yeah, that is what I think was the reason for Raphael to drag that kid to hell.

[raayllum]

Spark notes on "Callum lost his true heart" in S2. Excellent true heart meta here by @kradogsrats on how the concept works more generally that I would 100% recommend reading before coming back here

The true heart is a gift of childhood. For a few wonder-filled years, we each have innocent eyes to experience the world’s beauty in a simple way. 

We see Callum on the cusp of being 15 undeniably believing that the resolution to the war can be that simple (even if we know well before S7, wherein Aaravos directly says they have similar views of how the world works, that Callum does not hold onto this simplicity for long). This is demonstrated, as Krads points out, in Callum's conversation in 1x02:

CALLUM: Can't you just make peace with them? HARROW: It's not that simple. CALLUM: It seems pretty simple to me. You don't want to die, I'm sure the elves and dragons don't want to die, so everyone agrees.

This emphasis on what people want over what they're devoted/committed to ("I'm sure they don't want to die" -> "I am already dead") is similar to Ezran's in arc 2 ("We all want peace and we all want love [...] you want to hurt someone else") that is both dismantled and upheld ("You want Janai to attack!" / "I want them to hurt"). To hammer it in further, Harrow even denotes that Callum is operating under the illusion of childhood, where adults have all the power/freedom.

What happens, I think, over the course of season one and season two is a bit of a domino effect, with Callum making choices in season one that season two continually 'knocks' down so to speak. The first and easiest example, perhaps, is Callum's choice in 1x03 between staying and trying to save Harrow... or choosing his little brother, who will remain in danger the longer they stay at the castle (Runaan and Viren both presenting strong antagonistic forces) and even worse danger the longer the egg remains.

Callum glanced out a tower window and saw Ezran in the courtyard searching for him. But how could he leave the tower when the king was in so much danger? Callum tried to think of what the king would want him to do. “I’m coming, Ez,” he called out the window. He gave one final look back at the door to King Harrow’s chamber, then bolted to the spiral staircase. He took the stairs two at a time, trying not to look at the dead bodies strewn on the way to his little brother.

—Book One: Moon novelization

Now, this choice makes sense. It is in many ways just another version of the same one (choosing Ezran and his safety) that Callum had made earlier this same episode. Both are more complicated choices ("the right thing, I hope" does not beget certainty, and therefore does not beget simplicity) but we'll get to that in a moment.

The final domino set up in season one for Callum's true heart is, I think, choosing to destroy the primal stone. The reason I say these are the dominoes, so to speak, is because each of these choices are made in a very distinctly Callum-y way, by which I mean: he thinks to a certain degree he can skirt the consequences.

This is not to take away from the weight of the choices Callum is making — they're still sacrifices, they're still honourable, he's still aware that he's risking Something — but there's still clearly a 'block' of some kind between "this is what I'm choosing to sacrifice" and "this is the full consequential weight of my sacrifices".

For example, the primal stone means a great deal to Callum. He states that "without this, I'm nothing" and it's a great powerful tool of magic. However, when Callum destroys it, it is currently unknown to him that this means no more magic, point blank. The consequence for his choice is steeper than he'd imagined, and now he has to live with the reality of it (for a time, anyway, but it's not like the journey to primal magic isn't gruelling, anyway).

But as we grow up, we are forced to make choices, sacrifices, compromises. And they change us forever. 

The same happens when it comes to learning about Harrow's death. Callum was happily writing him a letter two episodes ago, reassuring Ezran in 1x03, etc etc. And yet:

Callum made a sacrifice, then convinced himself that maybe he hadn't, and had to face the devastating reality of what he knew was most likely, on top of why Rayla wasn't able to tell him for the same reason(s) he couldn't tell Ezran.

I also want to highlight Claudia (and Soren)'s betrayal of Callum as well for two reasons. The first, and less interesting/important one in some ways (to me, anyway) is that if Callum's betrayal of 7x02 contributes to the last vestiges of Ezran's true heart being snapped to pieces, it would make sense that Claudia's betrayal would likewise contribute to Callum's.

The more interesting/important facet of the Callum/Claudia breakdown is, to me, what happens before Claudia shows her true colours, and whereupon she hasn't done anything (knowingly) wrong to Callum yet, and still:

RAYLA: Callum, I know you trust them, but if we let them come with us, by the time we know the truth, it'll be too late. Do you understand? We'll lose everything. CALLUM: So what do we do? How can we figure out if it's help, or a trap?

Callum has already made a Compromise. He trusts Claudia, but Rayla doesn't, and he ultimately trusts Rayla more than Claudia, even this early on, the same way he trusted Ezran more than Claudia (and didn't trust Claudia with Ezran, then) in 1x03. So he goes along with the illusion plan, which would've been pretty crappy to do to an old friend if Claudia (and Soren) had been genuine in their offer to help.

So I think in quick succession over a few days, most if not all of Callum's true heart gets shredded to pieces within the first few episodes of season two. Barring that, I think 2x07, specifically the choice to do dark magic, takes whatever remains.

AARAVOS: You call it corruption. I call it compromise.

'Could he really bring himself to go through with his plan? What if he didn’t succeed? What if he compromised his beliefs and it was all for nothing? […] But Rayla was in trouble.' —book two: sky novelization

While Aaravos lists off choices, sacrifices, and compromises as though they are separate things, and occasionally they can be, I think more often than not in life and within TDP that they are all the same thing.

Do you choose (sacrifice) your father or your baby brother? Do you sacrifice your oldest friendship (compromise) to ensure your travelling party can be safe? Do you use dark magic (a compromise, a sacrifice of yourself) to save someone you love?

And Callum's dark magic use falls into his previous pattern of you made a choice, and you knew there would be consequences, but you never dreamed it'd be This. And finally — finally — in 5x08, Callum makes a choice with the full knowledge of the consequences, of exactly what he's risking — and what he refuses to sacrifice.

His true heart has been gone for a while by this point, I think — but within the narrative, Callum is an adult from 5x08 onwards. He knows undeniably what he'll sacrifice and why, and what he won't.

(Something something sacrificing your true heart to protect the person who is your heart and your truth.)

[optimisticgrey]

I don’t think Mystra groomed Gale as a child, but rather as a teenager/young adult. That’s my personal opinion anyway.

Gale has been able to use magic since he was 8 years old, and Mystra hears all Magic users. So she at least knew of him.

:) I respect your opinion either way

*sighs*

Okay, I really did not want to do that but it has bothered me for some time and I have a hard time not answering. The discussion came up again a few days ago. This is my personal opinion, I am not looking for a hardcore canon discssion. You can find the take of @archduchessgortash @waterdeepwife @sevikasstar

here

My short answer:

Please rethink your approach to media and reflect where this idea is coming from.

No one was groomed. It simply does not fit the timeline.

Power imbalances in relationships

Long answer below the fold. Buckle up, grab a beverage of choice, you know how this works.

Media literacy and self reflection This is the most important point. The claim that “they are grooming our children” is a well-documented conspiracy theory, originally weaponized by the far-right against the LGBTQIA+ community as early as the 1920s. It is literal propaganda. Despite a complete lack of evidence—hallmark of how propaganda works—this narrative has embedded itself into various forms of media and, apparently, into many minds. I understand the instinct to protect those we love (even if it's our pixel husband), but I encourage you to reflect on where these ideas originate. Why is your first assumption that a goddess "groomed" a child? To what end? Why would the Goddess of Magic concern herself with such matters when wizards are lined up to seek her favor? This assumption reflects your own thoughts and beliefs, overlooking the reality that gods are not inherently sexual beings. In fact, romantic or sexual relationships between gods and their Chosen are an extraordinary exception, not the norm. Just because something happened that you disapprove of, or because someone you care about was hurt, does not automatically mean that children were harmed or that grooming took place. There is also a Wikipedia article, please find it here. There’s an underlying layer of deeply ingrained American Christofascist purity culture at play here, one that cultivates a profound fear of sex. However, I’ll leave that discussion for another time. Important clarification: Please don’t interpret this as suggesting "grooming doesn’t happen" or "those in power never abuse their authority." That’s simply not the primary focus of this post.

DnD timeline Dungeons & Dragons, the RPG that our beloved Baldur’s Gate 3 is based on, has a well-established timeline and rich canon. The game is set in the year 1492 DR. According to the Forgotten Realms Wiki, Gale is 35 at this time. Elminster’s letter confirms that he met Gale when he was 8 years old, placing their first encounter in 1465 DR. Given Elminster’s status, it’s unlikely that their meeting was accidental—suggesting Gale was magically active at an even younger age (though this remains speculative). Now, looking at the timeline of the Spellplague, Mystra’s former incarnation, Mystryl, was killed in 1385 DR, triggering catastrophic upheaval in the Weave (including the Shadow Weave) and affecting all magic users. The Spellplague finally ended in 1480 DR with Mystra’s return, but it took until 1482 DR for the world of Toril to be fully restored. This means that during the chaotic post-Spellplague years, Gale would have been around 12–14 years old, thus denying the idea she even knew or acknowledged him when he was a child because she simply did not exist. Additionally, in-game dialogue confirms that Mystra was not Gale’s first sexual partner, adding further context to his past.

and he actually enjoys physical sex

We also learn from Gale himself that Mystra was first his teacher before she "in time" became his lover. This explicitly confirms that their relationship began as a mentorship before evolving into something more.

Knowing that Gale had sexual relationships with mortals before Mystra (we all know the "practiced tongue" dialogue) it stands to reason that his experience came from multiple lovers throughout his life. His relationship with Mystra was neither his first nor the one that introduced him to sexual intimacy, reinforcing the understanding that Gale experienced a perfectly normal progression of relationships and sexual intimacy during his younger years before he became her Chosen and, again "in time" her lover.

3. Power Imbalance A relationship between a god and a follower is inherently defined by an extreme power imbalance, where the divine being holds absolute authority, knowledge, and control, while the mortal remains dependent, vulnerable, and limited. The god dictates laws, morals, and expectations, with the ability to reward or punish as they see fit, making devotion an unequal exchange in which followers have little to no means of holding their deity accountable. This imbalance extends to knowledge, as gods often possess omniscience or vastly superior understanding—something Gale himself acknowledges—while mortals must act on faith and whatever limited revelations they are given ("I pleaded, I pouted...")

The relationship is further skewed by dependence—mortals seek guidance, favor, and power (in Gale's case), while the god remains largely self-sufficient, needing little from individual followers beyond worship. This creates a dynamic where the mortal’s existence is deeply affected by divine will, but the god is rarely impacted in return.(Mystra's existence did not change after Gale infected himself with the orb.) A follower may believe they have free will, but their choices are always shaped by an overwhelming power they cannot resist . In addition, the superiority of the god can make ethical concerns one-sided, where a mortal's devotion is judged, yet a god’s actions remain unquestioned. Followers may even be manipulated into believing suffering or hardship serves a greater purpose when, in reality, it may benefit the god more than them. While such relationships are not necessarily abusive, they can never be truly equal—divine influence is absolute, leaving the mortal in a position of faith, dependence, and subservience.

For Gale, this imbalance defines his relationship with Mystra. Even when framed as love, it is love on her terms—conditional, elusive, and ultimately unattainable in the way he craves. His free will is constrained not by force, but by the sheer weight of her influence. His choices, his sacrifices, even his descent into arrogance and desperation, are shaped by the overwhelming force of her indifference. What he perceives as devotion, she sees as mere mortal folly. The most devastating aspect of their bond is its inherent cruelty: a mortal’s adoration is insignificant to a god who remains unaffected by his suffering. Where Gale offers love, longing, and unquestioning loyalty, Mystra offers only distance, manipulation, and expectations he can never truly fulfill ("She told me to be contented", knowing all to well this does not one of his core traits). It is more than just a bond between student and teacher, or even lover and beloved. It is a dynamic of power and powerlessness, where Gale finds himself relentlessly pursuing a dream of equality that was always out of reach.

Thank you for reading.

[delta-pavonis]

Fic: can't take it back once it's been set in motion Chapter 2

Jayvik (Jayce Talis/Viktor from Arcane/League of Legends) || Rated E || almost 10k words || complete

Alternate Universe (Canon Divergence), getting together, rope kink, rope bondage, dom/sub, D/s, subspace, chronic pain, BDSM, pain play, impact play, anal sex, oral sex, anal play, hand jobs, masochistic Viktor, topping from the bottom, dom Viktor, just because Viktor likes being tied up and fucked into "subspace" doesn't mean he is a sub most of the time, bottom Jayce, Jayce is naturally a sub and will do absolutely anything for Viktor including fuck him stupid, mention of fisting, jealous Viktor, trans Viktor (Chapter 2 only), minor original character (Chapter 2 only), stimulation over clothing, coming in pants

Jayce sighs and crumples onto the tabletop, hiding his face in the crook of one arm. “Did I tell you the latest development? What he’s been fidgeting with?” “No.” She is unable to completely keep the chuckle out of her tone. He turns his head so that he is resting his cheek on his forearm and looks up at his friend sideways. “He was looking into new ways to think about channeling the magic into the hexite and ended up spending nine hours buried in books about mathematical knots. But that, apparently, got him interested in actual knots.” Myrka’s eyes widen even as they sparkle and she covers her mouth with her hand. “Yeah, you see where this is going. So five hours of studying actual knots later and I find him in the lab with a half-yard of rope just… tying… and untying… and tying… and untying…” Myrka is giggling now, barely able to get words out. She knows, better than anyone, exactly how much of a problem this is—at least, she's tied him up and pegged him enough times that she should know. “Oh Jayce. My sweet, darling, submissive Jayce. You poor thing!” By the end her voice has just the slightest wheeze to it. “That was two days ago.” He stares morosely into the middle distance. “He does it unconsciously. Just something to do with his hands while he is thinking, he says. Myr,” he whines. “How am I supposed to focus on science now?”

Read Chapter 2 on AO3

[eliotquillon]

write me a story where cameron finally learns chase is allergic to strawberries thank you (you can ignore this ask)

rip to chase if i couldn’t eat strawberries i’d pretend not to care about anything either. anyway set between s3 and s4 (or maybe at the very start of s4 idk whatever. point is they haven’t been together too long)

“I could’ve killed you,” Cameron says, sounding angry and annoyed and not very sorry, but Chase knows it’s all a front; she’d cried in the ambulance, small and scared looking as soon as the EMTs not-so-kindly told her that as a doctor she should know that there was little else they could do between giving him more epi and getting him to the hospital, and he’d wanted to reach out and comfort her, but that had been difficult what with his throat being all swollen up at the time. “I cannot believe you didn’t tell me.”

“I wasn’t going to die, or anything,” Chase protests, because he doesn’t really want to talk about this right now: why he never bothered to sit Cameron down and go by the way, now that we’re sleeping each other regularly can you throw out everything you own that contains strawberry? Because there is a reason—Chase isn’t this cavalier with his health on a daily basis, honest—but it is going to upset her, and the whole reason why Chase never told her was specifically to avoid this kind of fight. There’s no polite way to say I was pretty sure you’d interpret it as a sign of impending commitment and run for the hills, especially now that Cameron is kind of adorably self-conscious about that whole period of their lives. He’s only been dating Cameron for three weeks; on balance, the risk of anaphylaxis is far less deadly than the one to their incredibly fledgling relationship. “I had my Epi-Pen on me.”

Cameron narrows her eyes at him in disgust. “I’m an immunologist,” she starts, preparing, no doubt, to rip into him about how Epi-Pens are a miracle of modern medicine but aren’t actually magic, and how anaphylactic reactions can worsen with repeat exposure, and Chase is actually kind of looking forward to it even though his throat is sore and his head is killing him and his body feels like it’s encased in syrup, because a side effect of the honeymoon phase is that he now finds it incredibly hot when she’s on the warpath, even at him—only she takes a big gulp of breath and she suddenly starts to cry again. Not quiet, terrified tears like the one in the ambulance, but big, rolling, heaving sobs. He’s seen her cry before, usually over patients, but not like this, and it freaks him out a little; Chase extends his IV-free arm towards her and corrals her in so she can rest her cheek on his chest. It’s lucky, he thinks, that they’d been closer to General than PPTH; she’d never let him do this if they were in the ER at Princeton-Plainsboro.

“Allison,” he says into her hair, voice still hoarse, “I’m fine. It was an accident.”

He almost adds this has never happened before—because it hasn’t, usually Chase has to actually ingest something strawberry to provoke a reaction, he’s never had one just from kissing someone until now—but he does, for better or for worse, know exactly how Cameron ticks, and he has a feeling that this won’t be as reassuring as he means for it to be. “I’m sorry,” he says instead, “I promise I’m not allergic to anything else.”

“You better not be,” Cameron huffs. She cranes her neck up to look at him, eyes red and puffy, and says, “You’re banned from my apartment until I can deep clean the kitchen. And the bathroom, and the bedroom. I have strawberry lube that I need to get rid of.”

“There’s probably not any actual strawberry in your lube,” Chase says. Cameron makes as though to thump his chest, then remembers he’s hooked up to an EKG and thinks better of it. “No need to ruin all our fun, is all I’m saying.”

“I’m an immunologist,” Cameron says again, but she doesn’t sob this time—it comes out more as a sigh. “You should’ve told me.”

Chase thinks, idly, of all the times Cameron brought her favourite strawberry cream cheese bagels into work and he’d turned them down—how many times House had raised his eyebrows at the sight, but never bothered to say anything, either. He thinks of Cameron crying in the ambulance. There’s a hazy memory of her suddenly running off as soon as the ambulance parked in the bay, which is strange, and then he realises she smells absurdly strongly of medical grade mint. “You threw up,” he realises, and pets her head clumsily. “You should’ve asked for some Zofran.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Cameron says. “When you’re better, we’re going to talk about this.” After a moment, she laces her hand with his. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

She says it so nakedly that Chase doesn’t have it in him to fight back about her being mad at him anymore. “Told you I’m fine,” he says drowsily, and then he falls dead asleep.

[thewardenisonthecase]

ok so listen. In the grand scheme of things, none of this matters, its just a video game and I shouldn't get this worked up about it. But my god do I need to talk about this.

Like I am not surprised that a white man from north america, who has gone on record to call the qunari "islamic borg" and back pedalled on saying that the dalish are definetly not inspired by indegenous people at all, would say some shit like this.

But its still BAFFLING to me to come out here and say that the group of people who are *taken from their homes as children*, who are abused and raped, who are not allowed outside contact with the world, who cannot hold lands or titles, who can get their identity erased (hello 'anders is not his real name'), who can get their own personality and personhood stripped from them is somehow, a story not about oppression but about gun control. 🤡🤡🤡

Don't get me wrong. I think thedas having a prejudice against mages makes for an unique world and interesting storytelling. but what is the goddamn point then, if you refuse to actually engage with what that means.

This is why they couldn't actually fucking adress the goddamn templar and mage war in DAI. Because that would require understanding why the mages are revolting and to do that, you'd have to acknowledge that YES, the chantry IS wrong in how it treats mages and that it needs to change. But I guess that's too fucking radical, and DA does not seem to ever be actually interested in changing the status quo.

Its just INSANE to me because like how can you add something as cruel as the rite of tranquility. something as cruel as the stories of mages being dragged away from their homes, and not think its about opression. to be SURPRISED, even, that most people would disagree that mages are dangerous. Because to me, the mages being at risk of posession was always a lame excuse, considering that heightened emotions seem to attract more demons and guess what? being constantly abused would definetly heighten certain emotions ( PROPS to dorian in that one VG ocdex entry for poiting that out).

How are we NOT supposed to think its about opression when you have examples, IN THEDAS, of mages who live outside of the chantry and who aren't dangerous? Hello, seers of Rivain? The Avvar? Tevinter is filled with mages and you don't hear stories of 'random mage gets posessed and kills 70 people'.

Its just baffling to me that it feels so much of what I find interesting in regards to this whole mage thing is apparently unintentional or intentional in the WORST way possible. For example, I was thinking about how mages are very dehumanized within andrastian socities, to the point where they are treated like they're not even citizens of that nation. I felt that when Meredith talks about "protecting the people of kirkwall" and my first thought was well, the mages are also citizens of kirkwall so how is that fair. Another point is the fact that mass murdering mages is fucking a-ok. In ANY other situation, killing a bunch of people would be wrong, but because mages are seen as not-human (and i say human in the sense of person), its fine to kill all of them.

And now I'm thinking that yeah all of this is happening bc the fucking writers themselves also don't see the mages as people.

This is why the topic of blood magic keeps running in circles. Because the writing is on the wall: so many blood mages that we meet in the games turned to blood magic as way to fight back against the templars. They're doing it OUT OF DESPERATION. Even fucking Anders can point out as such, when you're looking for grace he says "They raised the bloody dead. they must be desperate" because guess fucking what.

It doesn't matter how powerful mages are. It doesn't matter that they can lit things on fire with a snap of their fingers and this or that. Because even with all this power, THEY ARE STLLL NOT STRONG ENOUGH TO FIGHT AGAINST GOD KNOWS HOW MANY TEMPLARS. WE GET TOLD THAT REPETEDLY; Wynne tells us the mages won't survive the right of annulment, Orsino says the thing. Its almost like, if you have a heavily militarized group that has the ability to cancel out the magic, SUDDENLY they are actually stronger than the fucking mages.

like david, you wanna take a fucking wild guess as to why people don't see the mages as dangerous as you put? BECAUSE YOU MADE THEM OPRESSED. YOU DID, EVEN IF YOU DIDN'T MEAN TO. HOW CAN YOU BE SO FUCKING BLIND TO THE OWN SHIT YOU WRITE.

its just....gah. I shouldn't be worked up about something from 2020 but its just so. incredibly. baffling.

I FOUND IT. I FOUND THE FUCKING THING I WAS LOOKING FOR.

THIS. MAKES ME. SO. FUCKING. MAD.

(source)

[narfin-frood]

do you guys have headcanons for how hater came to be because i super dont. in my head he's been bones forever and ever and thats just his species

[otaku553]

New blorbo :)

Also a silly interaction with this piece