#hubris that he thought he could control this dark power

[portablecity]

my gosh @filletedfennysnake thank you for asking~!

okay! so, short answer: i think it follows many of the same beats and deals with teh same themes of destiny, pride, great acts, submission to duty/destiny/fate, and erasing of the self.

(spoilers for the wizard of earthsea below)

(screencaps from The Green Knight)

(dev patel for ged in a future adaptation filmed by someone who knows how to film the unfilmable please please please)

first we have ged, a proud boy of humble origins finding himself in a place where he has been told he has potential, power, capability, a destiny -- and we the reader are told he will be a Great Man, go on to do things that change the world, become myth

but he can't see any of it yet - he's trying to be good, but really he's feeling a bit purposeless, and he gets caught up in the confusion and frustration of youth

but! it's solstice! a festival! and games are afoot! and young, ambitious, and desperate to prove himself, Ged takes on a challenge out of pride and hubris -- and it goes wrong in a way he could not have imagined - he opens the door and lets in the shadow, right?

and the terms of that mistake are: it is his burden and his alone now. No one else can deal with it for him. And it is transparently a mortal danger from the start.

but he doesn't have to deal with it immediately! he has time to prepare himself. but he doesn't know what he is up against - no one does! so preparation feels somewhat futile.

And then it is time for him to go forth. And he tells himself he is prepared, that he is noble and capable, and that he is on a noble quest - but he can't ignore it. it is a doom as well as a quest.

He is offered false (or true but impossibly costly) protection/aid by a dragon and resists it. He is a good man and he is trying to do right, but he made this choice earlier and it compromises his ability to do right. He is vulnerable because of it.

he nearly dies.

he is humbled again and again, and in his darkest moments he becomes a puppet of fate, arriving on the sandbar to receive and give basic kindness to people so ill done by, so ruined as to seem almost beyond life, who reward him for it.

but he doesn't understand the gift they give

great history is happening around him and he cannot engage at all with it, he is trapped inside his own quest.

and as he becomes more afraid and the fear controls him, he ends up trapped in a castle, courted, kind of, by a woman who would subvert him against her lord's wishes.

She wraps him in gold and furs and he becomes a rare treasure until he realizes what is happening.

She promises him protection but it becomes clear to him that he is worth more to her while in this doomed state, and he confronts the trap. Escaping it reduces him to almost nothing - he is nearly lost as a hawk on his way out. All he takes with him is the doom he owns.

and finally he knows he must go to meet the challenge despite the horror of it

he submits to his fate as an intrinsic part of himself

in fact by turning to meet it the horror lessens, the haunting is reversed, and he becomes the pursuer - there is an incredible clarity and beauty for him now

but only once he accepts he must pursue it to the edge of life and death.

and he knows that everything hinges on this confrontation. if he fails, and the gebbeth takes his body, he will rise to great power as a shell of himself, housing only fear and darkness

so he must own it fully, he must entirely accept his own fate.

...and then he is reborn from the edge of life and death, which is perhaps a twist on many green knight interpretations

LeGuin was very interested in balance and cycles and the wheel of the seasons and the intrinsic ties between dualities, so for an arthuriana reference, this makes a lot of sense to me? But i haven't noticed till now! The movie really made the Green Knight stick in my mind in a way reading it decades ago as a teen did not.

Would love love love to hear actual arthuriana folks' thoughts! Or if anyone knows of other writing on the subject!

I'm rereading The Wizard Of Earthsea, and there is so much more Green Knight in this story than i ever noticed before.

[asideoftrashplease]

Detangling JC, his motivations, & his feelings on WWX (i)

JC and WWX have a very fraught history, and while WWX’s role as the narrator makes it very clear what his feelings towards JC are, JC’s feelings towards WWX and motivations seem a lot murkier. He goes from treating WWX as a brother, to mounting a siege in a concerted attempt to take his life. His actions and motivations in the aftermath of WWX’s resurrection are also subject to interpretation. This meta provides argument for my interpretation of his feelings and motivations throughout these events.

LOVE AND BROTHERHOOD

It is clear from the outset that JC cared deeply about WWX (I wish I did not have to make a case for this because it should be obvious, but there are some who believe that JC did not love WWX). Although he holds bitterness and resentment towards WWX due to his family situation and their rivalry, he cares about WWX and is protective of him. This shines through especially in times of mortal peril. 

When WWX was trapped in the Xuanwu cave, he travelled without stopping to find people to rescue WWX. The trip should have taken 10 days, but because he drove himself to exhaustion in his desperation to save WWX, he only took 7 days.

When WWX is in danger of being discovered by the Wens after the burning of Lotus Pier, he uses himself as bait to draw them away from WWX despite the risk to his own life, which eventually leads to his capture and the loss of his core.

SO WHERE DID THINGS GO WRONG

Things started to take a turn after the Sunshot Campaign. I believe a few key events caused resentment and confusion to build and grow in JC over time:

WWX’s refusal to carry his sword, which put political pressure on YMJ

His decision to break out the Wen Remnants, without consulting or informing JC, with put more pressure on YMJ

His decision to defect from YMJ, effectively (in JC’s mind) picking the Wens over YMJ and his brotherhood with JC

His actions at Qiongqi Path which killed JZX — while we know from WWX’s POV what happened, JC and JYL have no idea what went down except from the claims of the surviving Jin cultivators

His attack on the 4000 cultivators at the Nightless City, which ultimately cost JYL’s life

It’s evident that JC is increasingly bewildered, angered, and hurt by WWX’s actions. It’s clear that he’s confused, and just CAN’T UNDERSTAND WHY WWX IS ACTING THIS WAY. All the while, resentment is building in him that he has to clean up WWX’s messes, all while WWX’s actions undermine him as a leader and brings up childhood insecurities and jealousies. But his love for WWX drives him to continually stand by WWX and believe in him — even grudgingly, complainingly, and with growing resentment. Even up to the attack at the Nightless City, even after JZX’s death, he still seems to believe in WWX.

This last event, the attack at the Nightless City, seems to be the turning point where he stops believing in WWX, so I want to cover this particular event in more detail:

A “pledge conference” is being attended by QHN, GSL, LLJ, and YMJ. This conference is a ceremonial affair, centered around their pledge to eradicate WWX and the Wen remnants. It begins with them honoring the fallen with a toast, but while the other three sect leaders make the toasts, JC goes through the motions of the toast with visible unhappiness, and then conspicuously says nothing to honor the dead.

I feel this action needs to be understood in the context of the ceremony. They are standing in the Nightless City, where their comrades died in the final battle to take down QSW, a battle which WWX contributed to greatly. They are pouring the wine on the ground where the bodies lie to honor the fallen: “Here we honor our fallen. Rest in peace.” (Uncontroversial) “Now in the name of our fallen, we will eliminate the Wens who killed them — and the Yiling Patriarch!” (Controversial because WWX was brother in arms to these soldiers, and JGS is stirring shit because he wants the Yin Tiger Seal.)

JC knows the controversial bit is coming, so while the other sect leaders one by one say things like “rest in peace” and “may they live on” he dumps the wine on the ground and refuses to say anything. He is the only one, of the four with cups, who does not speak.

When WWX appears, the others all draw their weapons, but JC reaction is different: “JC’s pupils shrunk. Blue veins lined the back of his hand.” From this sentence alone, it may not seem clear what he’s feeling, but based on the rest of his actions in this scene, I would guess that he’s shocked and appalled that WWX would dare to appear before such a large and hostile mob, A MOB THAT IS CURRENTLY PLEDGING TO KILL HIM AND SCATTER HIS ASHES, thus recklessly and what seems like arrogantly endangering his own life.

After an increasingly hostile exchange between WWX and the mob, JGS calls for everyone to set up the battle arrays to seal WWX in, with the intention of killing him there. But when WWX calls up the corpses buried under them to defend himself, it’s stated that all the sects were in disarray, except for YMJ, which seems to indicate that WWX’s corpses were not attacking the YMJ delegation — and the YMJ cultivators were not fighting the corpses either.

This all seems to indicate that despite JZX’s death, despite the fact that JC has NO FUCKING CLUE what the hell happened at Qiongqi Path, despite the fact that he’s no doubt been fed lies and biased reports from the surviving Jin cultivators, and despite the fact that WWX is currently unleashing an undead army on all of them — he still believes that there’s another side of the story. He doesn’t even know WHAT that story is, but he believes in WWX— grudgingly, and with growing disbelief, confusion, and incredulity—  he still believes, BLINDLY, in WWX.

THE TURNING POINT

In the ensuing chaos, JYL is killed, and WWX finally snaps in his grief, unleashing a hellish and completely uncontrolled bloodbath upon the assembled cultivators. It is estimated that this killed three thousand people, severely decimating the cultivation world’s population.

The siege begins after this attack, and we know from the prologue that the siege was headed by JC, and that he was the one behind key tactical maneuvers (designed using his intimate knowledge of WWX’s weaknesses) that allowed them to eventually sack the Burial Mounds. In the aftermath, he was the main person credited by the cultivation world for the defeat of the Yiling Patriarch. When WWX meets JL at Dafan, he corroborates this by revealing, through the narration, that JGS was the second-biggest contributor to the siege — after JC, who was the biggest contributor.

I know that there are other popular interpretations of JC’s motivations here. I will name two:

He participated in the siege only due to political pressure — after what WWX did at the Nightless City, he couldn’t NOT condemn him or the cultivation world would have turned on YMJ too

He participated in the siege hoping to take WWX alive and bring him back home to discipline privately

But I don’t subscribe to either of these interpretations. I believe he FULLY intended to kill WWX. Firstly, if he was only participating in the siege due to political pressure, why contribute so vitally to the siege, why take a leading role and design tactical maneuvers to bring WWX down? He could have just done as he’d done previously, which was to participate perfunctorily in “opposition” against WWX, but contributing as little as possible, or nothing at all.

Secondly, some may argue that he was trying to capture WWX alive. But before this, he had always given the impression of being extremely cautious, to the point of inaction when maybe action would have been better. JC is VERY risk-averse. His characterization before the siege is that he’d rather do nothing than do something even potentially risky. The intention of everyone else was to kill WWX, NOT to capture him. As such, the risk that WWX would be killed in battle is extremely high. Even if by some miracle, he managed to capture WWX alive despite the best efforts of everyone else to murder him, it would be really difficult to stop the other sects from executing him, and getting permission to take him home and keep him under house arrest. It would be a safer bet to try to sabotage the siege from the inside, which is not what he did. In fact, he did the opposite. He was leading the siege viciously and with intent.

So I believe that he fully intended to kill WWX, which means the turning point was JYL’s death. Up to her death, JC still believed in WWX. After her death, however, the very last we see of him is him clutching JYL’s body, completely in shock, having not yet processed her death. I believe his last words to WWX should hint to us what caused the snap from blind faith to blind hatred. These words were: “Didn’t you say you could control it?! Didn’t you say it would be fine?!” To which WWX (who is having 99 fucking breakdowns all at once) finally admits that he was wrong, and that he can’t actually control it.

My belief is that this incident made JC realize that JYL’s death (and JZX’s as well) was largely caused by WWX’s loss of control over his demonic cultivation, and IMPORTANTLY, JC’s inaction re: WWX’s method of cultivation and his seeming descent into violent radicalism. Despite all the warning signs, the growing escalations, the increasingly violent confrontations with increasingly large death tolls— he continued to believe in WWX, even when he could no longer understand or predict WWX’s actions. Everyone told him “you need to reign him in” “he’s going off the rails” “he’s a danger to us all” and JC didn’t take them seriously because he BELIEVED IN and TRUSTED WWX.

And now his sister is dead, his month-old nephew is an orphan, and WWX has massacred three thousand people in a single night, likely including members of YMJ, in a total loss of control and conscience. I think that was the turning point, the crux of the betrayal.

I believed in you. I defended you. I stuck my neck out for you. But you scorned my help. You rejected and discarded me. You betrayed my trust.

You don’t give a shit about me.

You don’t give a shit about anyone else.

I BELIEVED in you, and YOU BETRAYED ME.

—

NOTE: Right now this meta is getting a little long, so I think this is a good place to maybe cut it in thirds? Part II should cover the siege, WWX’s death, and the 13 years in between, and Part III should cover JC’s actions and motivations after WWX’s resurrection. As the next parts have not been written, I can’t link it! But when Part II is done, I will edit the post to include a link below the cut:

[Part 2 is still in progress!]

[zara-renata]

Alike and Cornered Beast: Sylus's POV

Summary:

I was desperate for Sylus's point of view during the first time that MC meets him in the Alike and Cornered Beast chapters of Long-Awaited Revelry. So I uh wrote it myself. I wanted to know why he touches MC so reverently but also quite brutally, so I spent a lot of time thinking about possibilities.

A/N:

Sylus x gender neutral reader/MC, second person POV (but we don't use Y/N in this house). Brief, derisive mentions of Xavier and Zayne (this is Sylus's POV after all, don't come for me). I love all the LIs, but Sylus has his hand wrapped around my throat and I see him as arrogantly having something to say about the other people who are also interested in his shiny treasure. He has mean thoughts about the other LIs, but he can be mean and we love that for him. Slightly canon divergent if you believe Sylus can't tell that MC is scared and repulsed by him until the shopkeeper informs him. I however believe this man is a little more perceptive than that. CW: violence, cursing, rude language, death, grief, murder, ok this is Sylus hello, non-consensual (non-sexual) touching of MC, metaphors involving hunger and blood, overuse of the word "lovely," but Sylus is a simp and it's mostly his POV so we must endure it. SFW, although clearly there is a thread of desire running beneath the interactions depicted ao3 link here

He doesn’t need the aether core in his eye to know how you're feeling. He can see it in the way your lovely jaw is locked tight, teeth clenched behind soft lips twisted into a tight line. The shudder you’re trying and failing spectacularly to repress, desperate to conceal your weakness: the fact that almost as much as you fear him, you hate him.

Almost from the very beginning, things have been going sideways for Sylus. First, that imbecile having the hubris to believe he could just pilfer what had clearly been claimed as belonging to Onychinus.

Second, the palpable fear that had juddered through you as he had graciously relieved the larcenist of the burden of his pathetic life, only for that fear to flare into bright, barely controlled hate once you figured out that using yourself as bait had succeeded in reeling in the largest predator in the N109 zone.

Third, even when he sauntered close to you, allowing you to drink your fill of his face, no other spark of recognition fired besides that of the leader of the most powerful criminal organization in the region. You didn’t recognize him personally at all, even as he hungrily mapped your face with his eyes and felt the bottomless well of want deepen even further in his heartless chest.

You didn’t remember a fucking thing. And for some reason, you hated him more than his worst enemies. And he had quite a large body count in the worst enemy column of the ledger of his existence.

The fear, he can understand. Onychinus is on the Hunter Association’s Naughty List, and you’re one of the Association’s true believers, a jewel in the hilt of their blade composed of naïve warriors. And like the noble, naïve creature he knows you to be, you firmly believe that any intel they fed you about him and his organization was the pure, unfiltered truth.

But the hate? He muses as he looks down into your upturned face, a face that has been carved into his dreams for weeks now, ever since Mephisto had reported back after scouting the Flux Nexus in the no-hunt zone. Ever since the night he finally found you, stumbling around and battling at the side of your sleepy, cunning rabbit of a partner in the dark wood, oblivious to the real danger perched amongst the leaves, watching through mechanical eyes. His lips twitch in an ironic smile, as he knows he should be grateful to the rabbit for the fact that you’re in front of him now, so agonizingly close. He can see the rise and fall of your chest. The breath you exhale, for him to inhale. All he has to do is let his hand do what it wants—reach out, fingertips drifting softly along the curve of your cheek, your throat, the pulse point that betrays your racing heart. You’re close enough that he could swallow you whole. A good man might be grateful, but he isn’t a good man, and he doesn’t have it in him to be grateful; he only catalogues the threat, and tucks away the thought of the light evolver to be a problem to contemplate, and solve, another day. Right now, he needs to solve the problem of why you hate him on a level that professional distaste can’t explain. The hate he sees in your bright, sharp eyes is personal.

Consequently, he might not need the aether core in his eye to know that you hate him, but he sure as hell needs it to figure out why.

He knows he should wait to use his power on you. He knows that strategically, the best play here is to move slowly, to rebuild your trust, to tease out what he wants from you, to prove to you that despite every instinct that the Association has indoctrinated in you, he is not a threat to you and never will be. He knows all too well that one can’t force trust and forge an equal relationship from coercion, but he doesn’t have the time. Not with the entire Nest on the hunt for his Prey tonight, not with his own house in chaos with Sherman running amok and running up the bill on collateral damage. He needs to know why you hate him so that he can deal with it now, all of it. To borrow the vocabulary of another one of your hapless suitors: now is the time for triage, and after he has assessed the carnage, then he will begin suturing the aftermath. Sylus may be a businessman, but he can appreciate a surgeon’s precision in approaching a crisis. Even if Sylus can’t appreciate the iceman himself, if only for the lingering looks the doctor indulges in when his patient is looking the other way. Sylus files this problem away, like the other, to be solved in quiet solitude another day.

So he indulges in a lingering look of his own, fingers twitching with the need to touch where they’re deceptively, casually resting on his hips. And then: Sylus lets himself look. He can feel the familiar warmth increase within his eye socket, the ember beginning to glow hotter and hotter, until it’s almost unbearable, and then truly unbearable, as it is every time, the price he must pay so that he may see.

A little silver apple on a chain.

A pair of smiling eyes.

An old woman’s hand placing a dumpling on a plate.

The relief of realizing that the danger has dissipated, and dinner is still waiting.

A strong, broad back, shoulders shaking with laughter as a door swings shut.

Almost from the very beginning, things have gone sideways for Sylus. He shuts his eyes, feels the heat and the pressure fade like grief with time, as the power in his aether core goes dormant once again. But you haven’t had time, have you? It’s still fresh, the wound still hemorrhaging. You think that he caused this. You’ve been bleeding for months, thinking it was his hand that wielded the knife lodged in your heart. Or rather, detonated the bomb that incinerated the only family you’ve ever known, leaving a smoking crater where your heart used to be.

Sylus’s mind races, compiling this new information, archiving the whys and hows, constructing and reconstructing his carefully assembled plans and all of the contingencies in between, laughing derisively at himself for not seeing this possibility coming. Sideways is an understatement. Things are well and truly fucked, Sylus thinks, looking into your lovely, livid face.

For a moment, an unfamiliar sensation drifts through his chest. He tests it gingerly, letting it cascade through him before he can identify it: despair. After all this time. Every year, month, week, day, second, breath, he has been carving a path towards you, littered with the broken dreams and broken bodies of others, and now he has finally found you, and what should have been his greatest victory (the spoils? His fingertips drifting up your silken skin, his fingers entwined with yours, home), may have been his greatest loss—a loss that is for once, despite all of his crimes and all of the corpses at his feet, every terrible thing he has ever done, not his fault at all.

He savors this strange feeling for a few heartbeats, indulging in it, pressing into it like a bruise, if bruises would actually remain under his skin. And then he discards it: the unexpected rarely obstructs his carefully laid plans, but nothing about you has ever been expected, has it? If he were the kind of man to resign himself to unexpected loss, like the other men clumsily flitting around you, he’d have been a dead trophy tossed at the feet of an enemy long ago. So the rules of the game have changed. So what? Sylus will adapt, because no matter his fucking luck, he is playing to win.

Because while gazing into the depths of your beloved eyes, Sylus not only saw the why of your hate, but the only thing that could soothe it. Something that you refuse to admit, even to your fundamentally honest self. Something you can’t admit, as you spend insomniac nights training until collapse, as you slice, maim, and end wanderer after wanderer, as you bare your teeth a little too savagely as blood spills beneath your fist and blade. You need vengeance. You need someone to hurt as much as you’re hurting. And not just anyone—the wanderers and criminals that you’ve trained your fists and pistols and blade on do not satisfy the blood-thirst burning through your veins. You need to punish the person responsible for the inferno in your chest. Maybe then you’ll be able to sleep again. Maybe then you’ll be able to not smile again, but at least retract the fangs that have been frightening the people around you for months now. The fangs you feared were always there, underneath the careful façade of the well-adjusted, law-abiding, healthy paragon of a hunter you’ve built to keep the nightmares at bay for years, to show your colleagues, your partner, your doctor and your superiors: Look, I’m harmless and righteous, the perfect tool, love me, love me, love me, please do not leave like everyone else I've ever loved.

And Sylus? Sylus has always, and will always, endeavor to give you everything your damaged heart could possibly desire. He knows that you will not believe that he was not the one who ripped your ‘family’ apart. And he knows that it will take time, time that he does not currently have, to rebuild what has been lost between the two of you. He recalibrates, sweeps aside the despair, and reinforces his resolve. If you want to exact vengeance on the person you think is responsible for all of your indescribable pain, Sylus will give his heart to you on a bloody platter, regardless of the pain it will cost him.

You need someone to hate right now to stay strong? So be it. He will be that for you, until he can locate the actual culprit. As he reaches out, ever so gently trailing the backs of his fingers along your hauntingly lovely face, he tells himself for a moment that he can't bring himself to use something so impersonal as the energy of his evol on you. But who is he kidding--Sylus is many things, but a liar is not one of them. He admits to himself that this is just him finally giving into his deepest desire, as he lets his hand drift from your face to the side of your neck, closing around your throat and lifting. He does not want to handle your precious form with such brute, concise strength, but he needs to hurry, he needs answers and he needs to fix this, now now now and you need him to be the enemy. This is what is best for you at this moment, in this place, and he only ever wants what is best for you, so he plays the part you need him to play:

"From your past to your future...to even all the crimes you'll inevitably commit. After all, you and I...we're the same. True kindred spirits."

As your body goes limp from his chokehold on you, he catches you, cradling your head in his hand, grateful for the strength of his body, the shelter he can provide you as he lifts you in his arms, holds you tightly, your chests finally close again, yours too full of a maimed heart and his missing one entirely, complementing each other, completing each other, even though you’re out cold and it will take so much—too much, too much, it’s already been too much time, you’re finally here, you’re finally in his arms, where you should have been all along—time to be able to have you in his arms like this but with your eyes wide open and fixed on his.

Later, when you wake up, in a dark room with this familiar stranger disdainfully staring you down through crimson eyes, as his evol winds itself around you, as it jerks you onto his big lap, you clench your teeth, you fight the tears of frustration and fury—why do you always cry when you’re angry? Is it not humiliating enough to lose control of the leash on your emotions, without tears spilling down your face to betray you to the object of your rage?­—and you fight desperately against the immovable force pinning you in place.

"I want to kill you myself," you grit out, through the tears and the snot running down your face.

And then this man places your gun in your hand, eyes bright as blood never leaving yours, in answer to the quietest, deepest buried desire of your limping heart that he has driven you to saying out loud. Your hate flares, because how dare he expose you to yourself in this manner? Who does this motherfucker think he is, casually extracting from your own mouth and offering you that which you couldn’t before name in hushed whispers, as if it means nothing to him, as if it costs him nothing, his sharp jaw relaxed, a ghost of a smirk curling the edges of his wide mouth? You fight it, the surge of hunger that chokes your panting breath—you fight it so hard, you’ve been fighting it for so long, ever since the piercing ringing in your ears began to sound that replaced your grandmother’s and Caleb’s laughter, the ringing silence that followed as debris rained down on your useless, injured body. You are not a mindless animal. You will not give in to this voracious want. You and this man holding your gun to his own heart are not the same, and never will be.

“Do you need some help? Yes? No? Maybe so?” His voice is the purr of a jungle cat, his hand, large and just as calloused as yours, envelops your own, with that same bizarre gentleness that you can’t even begin to interpret the why of, his finger drifting along your own, until it slowly tightens over yours. Your mouth says “No,” and you see how his eyes dart from yours to your lips and back again, but the hunger inside you howls as this man presses your finger against the trigger and the sound of the bullet leaving your gun drowns out all of the other noise in the cacophony of your thundering heart.

His big body jerks back, head hitting with a painful sounding thump against his melodramatic throne (ok, so it's just an antique chair, but honestly, where do villains buy ridiculous props like this?), and for an endless moment in time, the hunger is satiated, and a sense of triumphant relief courses through you instead. And then your vision sharpens, as blood the color of this man’s eyes begins to pour through the hole he—and you, we, together—just shot into his fucking heart.

He jerks the gun from your grasp and tosses it with a loud clatter to the concrete floor.

“You—Are you fucking crazy?” You’re moving before you realize it, palms pressed over his heart (a spiteful part of you hopes that it hurts him, even as you are suddenly overwhelmed with the terror that he is actually going to die, before you get any answers, before you get any help, before you’ve accomplished anything at all).

“You wanted to take my life,” he pants. It never hurts any less, no matter how many times it happens. He can feel his flesh knitting back together already, each stitch as painful as the one before. “And so you’ve taken it.”

Despite the pain, Sylus watches you leisurely, drinking in the blood splatters across your lovely neck and chin. My blood, he thinks with satisfaction. He wants to soak you in it. He wants to watch you bathe in it. He shakes his head, tucking that urge away for later contemplation. He is finally in the position to do what he has been craving for so, so long. He has given you what you want. Of course he will always give you what you want. However, that doesn’t mean that he can’t simultaneously get what he wants—Sylus strongly prefers deals when they’re win-win. He has given you what you wanted, and the slate is now clean. Now, it is time to begin negotiation of the highest stakes deal of his life: the acquisition of your body, heart and soul. Back at his side, where you belong.

“Now what? Have you already figured out how you’ll pay me back?”

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

Protection of the Abyss

Synopsis: When Childe's too injured to think, Foul Legacy soothes him to sleep in search of you.

Foul Legacy Childe x Reader Pronouns: Gender Neutral (no pronouns mentioned) Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Fluff Warnings: Injuries, mentions of crying, near-death experience, pain, mentions of medical supplies

Requested by Cottagecore Anon 💐: hihi! so uhm i have a FL scenario brainrot rn and i might forget about it cause there's so much im doing rn in college (AAA—) so imma immediately send this. 💐 what if foul legacy takes over childe, like, not to transform into his foul legacy form but like, takes over childe's consciousness and body and tries to find reader as childe and reader just doesn't know its FL. its okay if you dont wanna do this request btw!! (since it is a bit uncomfortable for a being to take over —) - cottagecore anon 💐

~ * ~ Childe is used to injuries. As the Eleventh Harbinger, he holds an unprecedented position of power over the endless troops of the Fatui, and as such it seems only natural for others to be against him, to fear his control and desire to put an end to it. The Fatui are distrusted in all other nations- that much he knows- but very few are courageous or foolish enough to attempt to confront the infamous Tartaglia, the Fatuus renowned across Teyvat for his battle prowess, and the ones that are quickly find themselves left for dead with a warning to never approach again. They would return home, terrified, whispering to their companions that yes, Tartaglia is truly unmatched amongst the common folk of the world. Childe has heard the rumors, and allows them to grow and flourish. He sees them as true- of course he’s unbeatable by simpletons like treasure hoarders and hilichurls- with the power he wields, how could he not be? He keeps his Foul Legacy, the art of the Abyss, grasped tightly in his hand; powerful, deadly, controlled; ready to unleash at a moment’s notice, and together he and the Abyss could even tear down the heavens from the sky. How foolish. Trembles run through Childe’s body as he limps away from a pile of dead bodies, slumping against a rocky cliffside and letting out a slow exhale. The twin blades in his hands lose their shape before dissipating into mist, the effort of using his Vision too taxing on his weakened body, and Childe curses himself and his idiotic hubris. He got sloppy- thought he wouldn’t be attacked so far from civilization- although he won, his opponents were smart with how they used their own blades. He squeezes his eyes shut as another wave of pain washes over him, awful and nauseating. His Foul Legacy whines in the back of his head, echoing faintly, distressed at Childe’s wounds and attempting to soothe his rapid, delirious thoughts, a moment of calm in the turbulent ocean of memories. He grasps and clings to a bright piece of the past amidst the Harbinger’s flickering consciousness- the first time he met you, at Bubu Pharmacy, and how you had held his heart and treasured it like it wasn’t corrupted by the Abyss and the starry sea. Childe hears Foul Legacy growl determinedly, once, twice, before everything fades to darkness. Foul Legacy blinks, squinting at the sun and sitting up. Everything is numb, a thin blanket spread over the searing pain of their shared body, and he glances down at his- Childe’s- hands, tentatively flexing them. They’re human enough, minus the way his skin is stained night-color from his forearms down, even fitting inside the bloodstained gloves Childe always wears as part of his uniform. The monster shivers- everything feels smaller in this form, squishier, more vulnerable- he hates it. Briefly he considers slipping the mask on the side of his head over his face, for some semblance of protection, but ignores it in favor of rising to his feet, the pain of Childe’s injuries just barely masked by Abyssal power. You- he needs to find you. You’ll help him and Childe, with your gentle hands, and erase the fear that lingers so steadily in his being. The sun is setting as you write up another prescription, clicking your tongue. What a horrible cold going around! The number of people falling ill only rises by the day, and you’re simply grateful that neither you nor Baizhu have gotten sick yet, with seemingly the entire city needing the Pharmacy’s services. With a flick of your wrist you sign the paper, stamping and rolling it into a scroll to take to work the next day. At least Qiqi can’t catch any bugs going around, you’re not sure what you’d do without your best herb collector, and you toss the scroll into your open bag where at least ten others of the same type are waiting. There’s a knock at your door, and the lateness of the hour makes you tilt your head in slight surprise as you set down your empty mug and venture out of your office. Idly humming a tune, you unlatch and open your front door, your little song dying away in an instant when you’re greeted by the sight of Childe, blood splattered across his clothes. Immediately you panic, brain going into overdrive as your eyes jump from injury to injury, only stopping to wonder how in the world he’s still standing upright. “Wh- Childe?! What happened?!” You pull him inside, sitting him on the couch and turning to run for your medical supplies when a hand catches your wrist. Childe tugs gently on your arm, and slowly you lower yourself and sit beside him, worried at his silence. His fingers brush your chin, urging you to look up into his shining blue eyes. Shining. Your own eyes widen as you stare, the sparkle in Childe’s eyes unnatural yet beautiful all at once. You begin noticing other unusual features, from the staining on his hands to his pointed ears to his hair, now fading from ginger to white at the tips, and your next words are hushed, whispered. “You’re not Childe… are you?” A head shake, and the sensation of a face buried in the crook of your neck prompts you to wrap your arms around Foul Legacy, running your fingers up and down the back of an Abyssal creature in a human body. You can feel him shaking- partially out of fear, partially from adrenaline- and your heart almost shatters right there and then. Without another word you slip away and climb the stairs, Foul Legacy following right behind you, to retrieve your medical kit. The next moments are filled with comfortable silence as you tend to the injuries peppering Childe’s body, cleaning the dried blood with a delicate touch. Foul Legacy merely watches, eyes glimmering and flicking from your face to your hands and back again, fascinated by the process and how the veil over the pain grows stronger and stronger. A few times you catch him mumbling quietly in Childe’s voice, then hastily covering his mouth, blinking in confusion as you attempt to hide your laughter before hunching over the bandages once more. Finally, finally, Childe’s body is wrapped and treated, the snow-white gauze stained deep red in several places, and you let out a tired sigh and lean against the wall, Foul Legacy slotting himself in place beside you. There’s a tentative brush of his hand against your wrist, the deep purple-charcoal color strange but familiar, and without thinking you lace your fingers with his and hold tight. Foul Legacy squeaks in surprise, the sound coming out as more of a yelp in Childe’s voice, pressing his forehead against your shoulder, pointed ears twitching in embarrassment. You smile, raising a hand to ruffle his copper locks, and suddenly there’s a cheek smushed against your palm, Legacy closing his eyes and pouting. His sulky expression, adorable as it is, quickly fades as you begin rubbing your thumb against his cheekbone, turning into one of awe and contentment. This- This is what Childe feels when you cup his face in the morning, at times when Foul Legacy is securely locked away. Everything is soft and gentle, his blackened hands holding yours as you trace across all of Childe’s freckles, making little galaxies and constellations out of them, and Foul Legacy wishes he could stay forever even if he feels his strength waning. He shifts slightly, attempting to curl around your body like he usually does, but settles for resting his weary head in your lap, consciousness faltering as Childe’s body begins to heal. Just barely does Legacy feel your hand stroking his hair, and involuntarily he lets out a whimper, not wanting to leave just yet. There’s a slight pressure on his forehead, your voice whispering something he can’t quite place, and Foul Legacy’s eyes drift closed into slumber. Childe wakes up aching, pain humming constantly in his bones, but not unbearably. Golden rays of sun splash across the blanket tucked over his body, the scent of food wafting from the kitchen- your kitchen- a tasty-smelling broth simmering while you read at the table. Your head jerks up when Childe peeks around the doorway, a broad smile gracing your features as you leave whatever novel you were skimming behind in favor of pulling the Harbinger into a gentle hug. He doesn’t even bother to wipe his tears as he mumbles out “thank you”s and “I’m sorry”s, merely leaning into your touch with a hum of relief. He’s alive. He’s alive, and he’s here with you, where he can heal safely unlike all the times before, accepting the soft blanket and warm broth you bring as he nestles back down onto the couch. The tips of your fingers dance from freckle to freckle, and with a quiet laugh Childe asks you what exactly you’re doing. There’s a little gleam in your eyes as you chuckle. “Oh, I just thought I’d give you some attention, too.” In the back of Childe’s mind, Foul Legacy purrs sleepily, treasuring the memory of your gentle hands ghosting over his face.

[always-andromeda]

Can you write an Adam Warlock x GN! Reader Smut fic? You can write it however you want...I'm just desperate for non fem smut fics of adam

– ⭒ 𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐝 ⭒ –

𝐀𝐝𝐚𝐦 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤 𝐱 𝐆𝐍!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 ▹ 1,283

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 ▹ Being friends with benefits messes with Adam's head far more than either of you are willing to let on.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ▹ I don't think I've ever done gn!reader smut? So I'm really hoping that I did this justice for you, anon!! This little concept popped into my head randomly because I can so easily see Adam falling into this kind of situation. Also, I am so sorry my writing has been so sporadic lately </3 I’ve been having various health struggles for the last month and haven’t been super cognizant lmao.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ▹ smut (minors, please do not interact), reader's appearance, pronouns, and genitals aren't specified, thigh riding, general heavy petting, little bits of friends with benefits angst, kind of implied dom!reader and sub!Adam (if you squint), nothing else I can think of!!

No matter how many times you and Adam end up like this, he still finds himself questioning what exactly is going on. Your lips move so fast and he's just trying to keep up; trying not to let on just how long he's been craving the taste. Which has basically been since the last time you kissed him about a week prior.

It'd been after the team's last mission went particularly well. Quickly – and without any of the other Guardians seeing – you'd placed a chaste kiss on his lips and commended him for his performance. It was so fast and your tone had been so matter-of-fact that Adam had second guessed it had even happened to begin with. It wouldn't be too surprising if he started fantasizing about you.

Unfortunately for him, that was just you and your mixed messages. One minute you were all business and the next you were like this: keeping him anchored in place with a hand on his cheek as you took his breath away.

He supposes he can’t blame you. It made sense, wanting to keep a relationship like this hidden from the others. Though he wasn’t particularly well versed on the sensibilities of those around him, he could imagine this not being a good look for either of you.

And though he may not care what the others thought of him, you seemed to care. And that was enough to mean something to him too.

"You gonna touch me?" you rasp hurriedly.

Yes. Every single time it was a resounding yes. Even if his mind was telling him that he was in too deep, he couldn't help but dig himself deeper. He hates himself for it, but secretly he hopes that at some point he'll find more than the physical contact you provide. Maybe someday he'll hit some underground bunker and that you'd be gracious enough to let him in.

So he nods vigorously, his verbal agreement reduced to a hum as he captures your lips with his once more.

He's still inexperienced and, God, he hopes that you can at least tell that he's trying to learn. For example, he's gotten better at letting you take control. The first few times his hubris had gotten the better of him, making the encounter feel more like a power struggle than a release of stress. Now, he lets you set the pace; lets you figure out right where you want to be.

And right now you want him pressed up against the wall of the ship. You want his leg between yours. And you want to feel his chest heaving as you grind down on him in the secluded and quiet darkness of the hangar.

As soon as Adam pulls back long enough to meet your eyes, he catches the glint of want in them. Then he watches how your gaze sweeps downward. Right to his strong thigh.

You're both grateful that Adam's such a quick learner because he catches the hint before you have a chance to get impatient. With his back against the wall, Adam half expects it to crumble behind him as the scene before him unfurls.

His hands on your lower back keep you steady against his rigid torso. You're so close that he has no choice but to look in your eyes once more. They're half lidded and dark, already almost fucked out despite the fact that you've only just begun to grind against his thigh.

Adam holds you closer, increasing the pressure that comes with each brush of your hips. And pride floods his chest cavity when you groan deeply.

You let out a staggered little laugh, "Fuck, you're so good at this, Adam."

"Only as good as you've taught me to be," he quips with a tinge of tenderness. After all, there's something special to being so tuned into your body like this. He wouldn't trade that mastery for anything. The sentiment comes through tenfold when he nuzzles his nose against yours.

Briefly, his forehead touches yours. You feel the slight chill of the smooth golden gem that's right between his prominent brow. And it becomes all too apparent to you once more who he is; what he is. The chances that this means anything more to him are very little. What could one touch-starved mortal mean to a golden, god-like being?

You merely roll your eyes and dip your head against his chest, hiding from both his soft expression and the impending wave of pleasure that both threaten to knock you off your feet.

Truth told, with your body all over his, all Adam feels is the warmth. There's your hot breath as you work yourself closer and closer towards the edge. Then there's the pulsing heat between your legs that makes him painfully hard. That combined with the cramped confines of the hangar has him picturing you both discard your stifling jumpsuits.

His wishful thinking is interrupted by a groan that gets caught in your throat. "Ah, fuck, I'm so close–" you pant.

Before you know it, one of his hands snakes around the nape of your neck, cradling your head as it lolls back. Then his lips are on the side of your throat, kissing and nipping at the flesh as it trembles from the vibrations from your hums of pleasure. You can't help but wonder if he's somehow trying to absorb your sounds. Either way, the action makes you acutely aware of his strength once more.

If you didn't know any better, you'd fully believe that every part of him was built for this.

But you do know better.

Adam pulls back to chuckle, "I can't wait until we get back home."

And there's where the guilt starts to set in. Like clockwork, it inevitably hits. Whenever he talks so eagerly, you can't help but feel that giant pit in your stomach.

You try to match his energy with a hesitant smile. "What, being down here isn't enough for you?"

"Of course not," Adam furrows his brow teasingly. "Maybe we could have a night to ourselves when we get back."

The cavernous pit grows. You can practically feel your soul shriveling away as you mutter, "Maybe we should lay low for a while. Don't want the others to get any ideas."

Don't want either of us getting ideas too, you want to say.

The way the light fades from his eyes makes you feel worse. But he agrees. He says a small, "You're probably right," and you wish more than anything that you were wrong.

You don't care if the others catch on. Something else about this intimacy bothered you. Because if there was anything that being with the Guardians had taught you, it was that no matter how important love was...things would always happen.

You thought back to Peter and how lost he was when the team had lost Gamora. As much as he'd hated to admit it, that love and loss had changed him so thoroughly that the idea of it happening to you was terrifying.

Adam may not have been the child of a genocidal warlord. But he was still the child of an unstoppable master race of superhuman beings. And no matter how normal things may feel, especially being with him like this, you could never kid yourself into believing it could ever actually be normal.

So you offer him a halfhearted apology. You push yourself off his chest and shakily regain your own balance before returning to the upper decks. Most importantly, you don't look back. And you hope that sends your message sufficiently. That he stops wanting this. Because you doubt you could stop wanting him on your own.

[kirbybecomesastarwarrior]

Your au is really interesting and charming! your ocs are very interesting. Question, is dark matter and/or zero a part of this au?

Dame Morgan: Conductor of Chaos

Ohoho~ I have big plans for them... >:3

Lore/Explanation:

My Morgan is loosely based on "Morgan Le Fay" from Arthurian Legend... and her name suggests that she has a connection to fairies, so... of course, I was going to tie her into Ripple Star. (the planet of the fairies...)

Their partnership actually started after (Kirby 64 and the crystal shards): If you know the game, there are two endings (a bad ending if you collect all the crystal shards) & (a good ending if you collect all the crystal shards).

KBASW Kirby follows the bad ending route... and this is where things get interesting: Dame Morgan's added to the mix...

So in the KBASW Kirby and the gang just miss one crystal shard... and it just happens to fall into the hands of... the worst person you could possibly imagine... And instead of Fairy Queen being possessed... Dark Matter finds another host...

(This is also why I made Dame Morgan's eyes purple in a reference to Queen Ripple and her purple eyes~)

Dame Morgan goes to the remains using the one shard crystal to absorb the last remaining remnant of Dark Matter... (they purify the queen... but Morgan is secretly there and uses the last bit of the shard to pull him away... just before anyone notices it...)

At first, Dark Matter freaks out because it's another star warrior: he's done for... But instead of purging them... she offers them a deal... an offer that Dark Matter couldn't possibly refuse... It was everything they could've asked for:

A free hiding spot/victim no one would suspect

A new vessel they could control freely

Access to the raw power of an ex-star warrior

AND THEY WERE WILLING!

All they needed to do was help her with her goals, revenge on the GSA, intergalactic conquest, destruction of other worlds, unsealing Void Termina... you know that sort of thing.

DM when they hear all this: SWEET NOVA GURL... you're speaking my language! So, hey, why not?

Unlike Dark Matter's other possessed victims... this one felt different... she was able to separate from their dark aura with ease and regain control of herself perfectly. Maybe it was because she was willing...

However, Morgan played it off as if they were the only ones who relinquished control back to her body (playing dumb). And being the prideful smuck he is... Dark Matter goes along with it. "Hey, of course... we're partners, right?"

He didn't want to lose his flesh puppet, plus their ideals matched up with each other, and saw no problem in helping them (DM) with their goals (taking over Ripple Star)... what could possibly go wrong.

This should have been DM's first sign to run...

For a while, things were great... little did they know Morgan was allowing them to believe they were in control. Dark Matter's hubris and desperation backfire on them...And, soon enough something happened they never thought was possible... and regret it dearly.

He was no longer the puppeteer... this time... he was the puppet?

Also, shoutout to @camachine

I always felt something was missing in Dame Morgan's design that I couldn't quite place... but then I did a little cross-over post (@camachine 's style of drawing the characters to be more fluffy): it just clicked so well with Morgan I had to keep it for her design.

And that's why she has a tuff of hair fluff now (for those who were wondering.) Plus, it shows how unhinged she's gotten after leaving the GSA... And I love it for her.

Morgan remains quiet working behind the scenes and is the main villain of the KBASW (AU)... It all comes together in the end... And needless to say, Ripple Star's in big trouble.

Also dropping what I consider Morgan's character song

Villian~

[cilil]

How would a Yandere Fëanor/Manwë relationship work anyways?

𝓐𝓝 ~ A really interesting one to think and write about and I may have gone slightly overboard. Hope you enjoy!

𝓕𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 ~ Fëanor being too ambitious and Manwë being too innocent for their own good, sex for "science"; also we're ignoring LaCE for these

𝓣𝓦𝓼 ~ Yandere, obsessive & possessive behavior, possibly infidelity (depending on where exactly you put this on the timeline and how you interpret Ainur marriages), references to avian traits in avian Ainur, breeding kink and potential future mpreg(g)

.ᐟ I put the smut and kink related stuff under an additional divider (watch out for the sparkles) so those of you who aren't comfortable with it can avoid it. You can scroll to the end from there, those are the last two bullet points ♡

✦ Fëanor has always been ambitious in all things and never settles for second best.

✦ Blessed with a sharp mind, a thirst for knowledge and a need to explore and understand the world around him, Fëanor soon found himself curious about the Ainur - beings who are like Elves in many things, yet so different in others.

✦ His main areas of interest in regards to Ainur were not only spiritual matters, but also the mysterious and alien Valarin language, the history of Arda before the Elves' awakening, Songs of Power and the making of the world through the Ainur's angelic abilities.

✦ While there was certainly a whole lot to learn from Aulë who has always been rather fond of Fëanor and the Maiar he came across in day-to-day life, Fëanor decided that none other than the Elder King himself would be an acceptable teacher, especially in matters of song and language, as he's known to be a poet and mighty singer.

✦ Whereas some found Fëanor's request to be quite audacious or even rude, Manwë was swiftly charmed by him and willing to teach. He had always perceived and loved that spark of greatness within Fëanor, being reminded of his brother whom he still misses dearly, and showered him with attention and affection rather quickly.

✦ Under his tutelage, Fëanor proceeded to practice his linguistic skills, worked hard to understand and learn Valarin and asked many questions about Arda, even convincing Manwë to show him some of his own memories so he could get a better understanding than a second hand account could provide.

✦ Shrewd and perceptive as he is, Fëanor didn't fail to realize that the Elder King was rather taken with him, most likely even seeing through him enough to understand why and recognizing that Manwë felt a strong need to have someone like him in his life to soothe an old wound.

✦ He had also long since felt another ambition sparking within him: Being the holiest among the Holy Ones and Ilúvatar's favorite, Manwë was, in his eyes, a most exquisitely designed being, the one the Creator himself considered to be the most beloved offspring of his thought. And seeing Manwë giving him whatever he asked for so readily and willingly, with such innocent trust and love despite his divine wisdom, Fëanor wondered if, just like the light he had trapped in his Silmarils, he might have the Elder King as well.

✦ Some might have called it hubris or folly, but when he began to take control of their relationship and brazenly ask for more intimate favors, Manwë yielded with little to no resistance. In fact, Fëanor got the impression that he was used to submitting to others, most likely his wife and brother, but found that he wanted this all to himself instead and felt jealous whenever Manwë - neither understanding nor perceiving the dark, possessive tendencies he was developing - talked about other people close to him.

✦ It was at this point that even Fëanor questioned himself. Could he really lay claim to the King of the Valar? Yet he swiftly remembered that there were ways to bind and possess even a Vala, just like Manwë's mightier brother had been subdued and captured, and surely someone as good, pure and agreeable as the Lord of Winds could be his.

 ˚ ੈ✧̣̇·˖ 　˚ .　　　✶ ˚　　��　. 　 ˚　.　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔　.  ˚　

✦ Fëanor eased Manwë into more intimate scenarios by pretending to be merely interested in studying his anatomy - which was not untrue, but not the whole truth either - and quickly found out how he liked to be touched. Love is freely given and shared among the Ainur, as he had previously learned from those in Irmo's service, so he wasn't worried about incurring the wrath of other Valar; his mind was more focused on taking what he wanted and perhaps even being able to have Manwë to himself in the future.

✦ Aside from bedding the Elder King, Fëanor once again felt the desire to sire offspring returning to him, something he knew an Ainu would be capable of regardless of gender; and he had long since learned that Manwë's avian nature made him prone to going into heat during mating season. He intended to take full advantage of this, not only to satisfy his desires and fulfill his breeding fantasies, but also to bind the Lord of Winds to himself.

I'll leave it at that for now; if you'd like me to write more about specific aspects of this scenario or how canon events would play out, such the Flight of the Noldor or Fëanor raising a half-Ainu or whatever else, feel free to send another ask (that applies to all of you lovely people of course, not just anon).

 ˚ ੈ✧̣̇·˖ 　˚ .　　　✶ ˚　　✦　. 　 ˚　.　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔　.  ˚　

Thanks for reading!♡ If you enjoyed, please consider liking and reblogging!

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[hazel2468]

Okay this is apparently a Magic theory blog now. But I just gotta...

I'm talking with the wifey. About the most recent side story, the Ravnica one. And I simply MUST present my theories about Jace, Vraska, and how Norn is a fucking IDIOT.

Spoilers for March of the Machines, but it's been out for a couple of days now so. If you haven't read it yet, tough tiddies.

Okay. My Theory.

Jace is playing Norn like a fiddle, and he saved Vraska.

Jace ALWAYS has a plan. Always. He doesn't leave things to chance- he's just like that. There's precedence for him preserving his mind in the face of some altering or possessing influence (see what happened with Emrakul, where he created a little mental "safe house" for himself. Also see what happened with Vraska- little mental "safe house" for her). Jace is NOT the kind of person who would go to fight the Phyrexians, knowing he might get Compleated, and not have a plan to preserve his mind. I think that, combined with the fact that he was fucking stabbed with a sword made of fucking HALO, makes a pretty good case for Jace being more himself than Norn would want him to be.

Not to mention the whole bit where he just. Dips before Norn gives him any orders. We see in the chapter that Norn is assuming that he already knows what she wants... But we have also seen that Elesh Norn's biggest weakness is her hubris. The way she is so assured of her own rightness has consistently been her undoing. It cost her Tamiyo, Ixahel is rebellious. Even Atraxa, Norn's own daughter, is not immune to individual thought and feeling (saw art and had an existential crisis there, didn't you, Atraxa?).

So if Jace is himself, if he isn't under Norn's control as much as he should be, or even at all. If Jace is still purely JACE. What do you think this oh-so-smart-but-still-so-stupid lovesick bisexual man is going to do?

The same thing he did before. Go after his fucking girlfriend.

The entire Ravnica story, from Vraska's perspective, demonstrates that some part of her is preserved. Her mind is safe from Norn's corruption (and I am specifically calling it that because I think the idea that phyresis and Phyrexians are inherently corrupting and evil is stupid, tired, and abelist as well). She persists in there and, when she "dies", she is preserved.

So when Jace showed up, at first? Yeah- I thought Vraska was dying, and she was just giving herself the closure she needed. Getting to spend just a little more time with her beloved, even if it wasn't real.

But then shit started jumping out at me. Vraska's mind was in a place that JACE created for her. Everything seemed too real. There was a moment when Vraska experienced their kiss from Jace's perspective- how could a memory in her head do that? The way that Jace reacted to things she said (asking to make it right, a do-over, another chance)....

And then Jace telling her "this part hurts", like he KNOWS. The explosion of white light instead of what I frankly would have expected from her death, a fading into peaceful darkness.

And all of this was purely wishful thinking-

And then her fucking body vanished. Ral fucked up the oil in her, and then her body was GONE.

So, current running theory in this house?

Vraska's mind, her self, was preserved in the mental safe house that Jace made for her. Something we've seen him do in the past for himself in the face of mind-altering forces. Then, Ral fucked up the Phyrexian oil and that really took Vraska apart. But when she went down, she ACTUALLY spoke to Jace. That vision of Jace in her head was the real Jace, communicating with her while he tried to save her. And as for the flash of white light, well, bare with me here...

Halo. Jace was stabbed with a sword made of Halo, and I think its power might have given him the edge he needed to win over Norn's influence. What if he simply did the same thing to her? "This part hurts"- because Jace KNOWS what it feels like for his Phyrexian body to be flooded with Halo.

I could be wrong. I really hope I'm right. Because if WotC gives us this, saves these two, then there is HOPE for Nissa because holy FUCK if they disrespect the fucking gays again with this one... Normally I would say I find it hard to believe that anyone can build up a relationship's significance like Chandra and Nissa's has and then fuck it up, but WotC has done it once.

[byenycfm]

Henri Sébastien Olivier || 42 || #11A || Jamie Dornan || Closed

Personality:

obsessive, oblivious, enthralled in the delusion that he is the tall dark mysterious stranger they warn you about. it takes a lot to break that delusion and bring him back to earth but the consequences are just as unpleasant as letting it carry on. is it better to indulge in a child's fantasy or to endure the tantrum that will be thrown once its broken?

Biography:

Trigger Warning: Gaslighting, Emotional Abuse, Stalking, Implied Sexual Assault, Kidnapping

henri and margot oliver were raised with clinical disinterest. a surgeon and a psychologist, each too preoccupied with their respective careers to feign notice--let alone concern--for the disconcerting dynamics that were forming between their children. in adolescence henri’s arrogance and control had complimented margot’s childishness and provided her some direction in life. but since his return from finishing school, things had changed. there was an escalation. he seemed to grasp margot ever tighter and her acts of rebellion had gotten them both firmly reprimanded. lest they forget the only rule they were ever truly expected to uphold: don’t embarrass the family. 

university preoccupied him and provided margot an opportunity to slip from his grasp. a decade later and he had moved to america, teaching french language and history at a college in virginia. time did not tame the hubris that had lived inside him during his boyhood. if anything, the absence of any real consequence for his actions had only reinforced the delusions of control. still, he was smart enough to keep his private life far from his public one. he knew not to piss where he slept. 

but getting coked up and sleeping with hookers on the weekend only kept him occupied for so long. truthfully, if it hadn’t been elisabeth.. it would’ve been someone else. what he needed was the obsession, the power. she just happened to be the perfect victim. thoughts of the wide-eyed girl sitting in the back of his lectures began to occupy his mind and one innocuous smile given to him in passing was all it had taken to solidify his desire. he wanted to have her in every way you could have someone. but how did he prove that to her? how did he show her he was everything she would ever want or need? he needed her broken. isolated. defeated. only then would she understand.

the end of semester study abroad trip was the best opportunity he was going to have. there had been... hiccups. things didn’t entirely go according to plan. but the details didn’t matter. henri and elisabeth had walked out of the parisian catacombs as the only survivors to a mass murder. what she’d seen of him while down there.. he’d proved his love for her. and she’d proven hers, in turn, when given a chance to kill them both or accept the life they were to have together. 

elisabeth had been painfully quiet in the months that followed but that was okay. he talked for them both; telling the story of their survival and eventual engagement as they healed from the trauma they’d experienced at the hands of a group of deranged parisians. despite the way she flinched from his touch or the dissociative state she defaulted to when he approached her, henri was steadfast in his belief that she loved him. she’d made her choice in the catacombs afterall; and she’d chosen him. 

Pre Outbreak Occupation: Author, Lecturer, Devoted Husband Previous Zombie Experience: He did what he had to both times the undead infiltrated the building but has avoided them aside from that. His main priority is keeping himself and Lis alive. None of the rest matters.  Marital Status: Married Children: N/A  Residence: 11A Years residing at The Wexley: Seven Months Pre Outbreak Connections: Elisabeth Olivier - hostage loving wife

[myreia]

To Ash and Ember

Rating: M (for canon-typical violence, trauma, and language) Characters: Aureia Malathar (WoL), Lahabrea, Thancred Waters Pairings: Aureria/Thancred (pre-relationship) Words: 2057 Notes: Set during ARR. Spoilers for the end of the base game. Read on AO3

It is impossible to breathe in the scalding heat.

Aureia skids backwards, narrowly avoiding a blast of concentrated magic. She once thought herself so clever, climbing easily through the ranks of the Thaumaturge’s Guild and proving herself as a black mage. Spellwork is as intuitive and natural to her as breathing—she feels the pull of her aether, guiding it, commanding it. She is a master of fire and ice and lightning, calling upon it to bend it to her will. She has slain primals, defeated enemies thought untouchable.

In her hubris, she thought she was untouchable as well.

How sorely she was mistaken.

She twists, searching the battlefield for Lahabrea. Since entrapping her in a circle of flames, the Ascian has proved to be more than her match. The air is thick with ash and smoke, stinging her eyes and searing her lungs. Her mind—usually so clear, so adept at perceiving her surroundings and reacting accordingly—is a haze. She knew she would face him eventually, but nothing could prepare her for confronting him like this.

Not when he is possessing Thancred.   

Lahabrea hunts her across the field, appearing where she least expects, showering her with waves of dark magick. His power slams against her, breaking her focus, giving her very little time to throw her own spells back at him in return.

That she is still standing is a feat in and of itself.

Aureia pauses, a faint crackling echoing in her ears. She spins, staff raised, just in time to see him soar several feet above the battlefield. Her heart pounds, panic rising in her gut. Her ward is almost gone, its power all but sapped. If she can’t raise another…

She has to finish this quickly—and without harming Thancred. But how? The Ascian has shrugged off every attack and every spell, slowly draining her energy and her focus until there is nothing left. She can’t fight forever.   

“You are strong, I will concede,” Lahabrea drawls. “But even your strength is limited, Bringer of Light.”

That voice. How it curdles her blood and fills her with rage. The Ascian speaks in a manner all his own, but beneath it she can hear the remnants of Thancred’s familiar cadence. His voice, his laughter, warped and distorted into something foreign and impossible. Something horrific.

She wets her parched lips and searches his face for some semblance of recognition. Is he in there somewhere, fighting to seize control? Or has his consciousness been suppressed and locked away, all but putting him to sleep? Worst still—is he there, watching their enemy thrash her thoroughly through his own eyes and unable to stop it?

Her fingers tighten about her staff, her nails scratching the wood. “As is yours, Ascian!” she shouts. “Why else haven’t you ended me? If your strength far exceeds my own, surely you could kill me here and now.”

Lahabrea laughs, twisting Thancred’s expression with malice and spite. “Your limitations are no mere matter of raw power. You are weak in mind and spirit, girl, and you cannot hide your shortcomings. Even the lowliest of mages in your Thaumaturge’s Guild have sensed how you restrain yourself.”

She freezes, bile rising in her throat. “I’m not, I haven’t—”

“Then come, adventurer!” he snarls, eyes blazing in the red light of his glyph. “Unleash yourself here and now, if you dare. Yet know that if I should perish, so too will the mortal within whose flesh I reside—”

Aureia screams.

Forgetting all semblance of form and stance, she hurls herself forwards and releases a blast of fire. The flames shoot through the air, propelled on a storm of rage and fury, and collide with the Ascian. He falters, pushed backwards by the force, but recovers quickly. Hanging in the air, Lahabrea throws back his head and laughs—frenzied, cruel laughter. His hands move, fingers gleaming with the workings of a spell.

Too late she realizes her ward is down.

Shit.

The spell strikes her in the chest.

Aureia flies through the air, tossed like a ragdoll, and crumples on the ground. She grunts, pain flaring outwards from the point of impact. Her limbs seize, numb and useless, leaving her immobilized facedown in the scorched earth. Her staff splits and falls from her hand, the lacquered wood cleft in two from the blistering heat. Its orb flickers once, twice—and goes out, its power shattered.

Cinders sear her face, her hair, her mouth. The fire is everywhere now, uncontrolled and all-consuming. Flames wreathe her body, coiling up her back, setting her ablaze. The horrific scent of melted cloth and flesh assaults her senses. For a moment, she doesn’t understand that she is the one burning, that it is her skin that is melting. The impossibility of it leaves her dazed. Fire is her domain: her comfort and her protection, the one bright constant in a life shred to pieces. How could it betray her?

A fresh wave of flames shower across her and the blistering pain overwhelms her all at once. She would scream if she could, but voice fails her. Her throat is scorched. That, too, he has taken from her.

Her friend, her strength, her weapon, her voice. It would have been easy enough for him to kill her outright, but no—it had to be done this way. He’s playing with her, toying with her, torturing her to satisfy some wretched desire she can never understand.

Aureia groans and rolls over, head throbbing, back blistering. She sucks in a deep rasping breath, desperately clinging to her last vestiges of life. Tears leak from her eyes, clouding her vision as she bites down on her tongue to keep from screaming. The pain is intolerable. Suffocating. It hurts to move, it hurts to think, it hurts to exist.

Somewhere high above her, Lahabrea laughs, the crowing sound buzzing in her ears. But even as the Ascian celebrates his triumph, something hums in the back of her mind. A flicker of hope, searching for one last catalyst to set it alight.

Aureia stirs, pressing a hand to the blackened ground. A circle of flame roars around her, the remnants of her own spellwork and Lahabrea’s combined, one strengthening, one weakening. There is truth in what he said. Her strength is limited—and she has all but sabotaged herself.

She is holding herself back out of fear.

For every spell she throws at the Lahabrea’s smug face in anger, there is a part of her siphoning off its strength the moment before impact. Ascian or no, she cannot bring herself to hurt Thancred. The thought of killing him with her own magicks is more than she can bear. But now she must accept that eventuality.

Neither of them are walking out of this alive. Either she ends Lahabrea here and now—and possibly Thancred alongside him—or he kills her. And if the Ascian slays her with Thancred’s own hands… She doesn’t want to think about what that would do to him.

If it’s a choice between her and him, there is no question of what he would want. What he would beg her to do.

Aureia raises her head. A hot wind tears across the battlefield, pulling her hair free from its braid and blowing it about her face. She blinks, clearing her vision, and apprises her foe. There is a second part to this equation. For too long, she has rejected a fundamental part of herself—the power that resides deep within her. Hydaelyn’s gift. She has suppressed it, pushed it away, terrified of what it will mean should she accept it as a fundamental part of herself.

No more.

Mark not the Dark Minion’s subtle words. Only Light may banish the Darkness.

The presence brushes her mind like a gentle embrace.

This time she welcomes it.  

She rises on unsteady feet and turns to face her foe one last time. The remnants of her staff lie on the ground beside her, charred and broken. She takes a step, then another, white ash and glittering embers swirling about her in a cloud. She has no weapon other than herself—and that must be enough.

There is no other choice now.

Lahabrea stares at her, startled out of his victory, mouth twisted with contempt. “How—”

Aureia raises a hand, palm sheathed in blinding light.

“Get the fuck out of him, you bastard.”

The brilliance explodes outwards and engulfs them in endless white.

***

Aureia has no memory of Lahabrea’s defeat. One instant, she is crashing into him with the full force her rage and the power of her blade of light, and the next she is kneeling on the ground, shaking and hazy. The inferno roars, the circle closing in around her, as the stronghold beyond collapses into fiery ruin. She takes little note of the surrounding destruction. There’s only one thing that matters to her now.  

Thancred lies some distance from her face-down on the ground, still and unmoving. Back blistering with pain, she grits her teeth and crawls through the blackened ash to his side.

“Thancred…” His name is little more than a whisper, her throat and mouth too dry for speech.

He doesn’t answer.

She inhales a rasping breath, forcing it through her singed lungs. Blinking away panicked tears, she shoves her hands fruitlessly against his side, but her strength has been all but drained away. She curses her weakness, murmuring his name again and again in a desperate hope he will respond. Finally, after several tries, she rolls him over onto his back.

His head lolls, white hair stained grey with soot. His face is ashen, his eyes closed, his expression frozen in cool serenity.

He isn’t breathing.

“Thancred…”

Aureia clutches desperately at his hands, ignoring the painful red blisters bubbling across her palms. She is usually so certain, so controlled, but now… The uncertainty at what to do terrifies her. She is no healer; she has never had the capacity. Magic has only ever been a tool for war and destruction.

She knows little else.

“Thancred…”

She thought herself prepared for this actuality, but now she is facing it, she cannot accept it. It can’t have been her hand that struck him down. She can’t lose him, not again. Not like this. Not this way.

Not without trying to save him.

Wiping tears from her eyes, she places her trembling hands over his heart and presses down as hard as she can. She mutters the count, anxious not to lose track, giving little care to the ash in the air and the burning ruins around them. When the count is up, she tilts his chin back and presses her mouth to his, gifting her breath to him.

“Come on, Than,” she murmurs. “Breathe, damn it. Come on.”

She presses her hands into his chest again, shoulders shaking as she gasps back her sobs. Another set. Another breath. Again and again. She will do this as long as she has to—even if the whole Praetorium collapses around her—until she is certain there is nothing else she can do.

“Come on…”

Aureia stills, slowed by the pain of her injuries and her crushing fatigue. Knowing she has nothing else left in her, she presses her mouth to his. One last try. It is all she has.

Thancred groans, a faint, stuttering sound rumbling in his throat. She reels back, knuckles pressed to her mouth, and stares at him. He coughs, eyelids fluttering, and cracks his eyes open.

“Aureia…?” he croaks.

She lets out a stuttering, sobbing cry and tears roll down her cheeks, staining her face with smudged makeup and ash. Shoulders shaking, she collapses at his side and rests her head on his chest. He stares at her, a faint, exhausted smile on his face, and raises a hand, weakly threading his fingers through the singed tips of her dark hair.

He is too weak to say anything else.

They lie there for a moment, exhausted and worn, too fatigued to rise to their feet. The surrounding fires burn, explosions from the stronghold’s collapse thundering in their ears. Though the danger remains imminent, for the first time since the raid on the Waking Sands, Aureia knows peace. She has no doubt they will make it out.

He’s alive. That is enough.

[themosleyreview]

The Mosley Review: Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga

Immersion. Complete, unabashed, uncompromising immersion is what makes these films so damn fun to experience on the big screen. The idea of what could happen in a wasteland and how those choose to survive has always been at the forefront of this mad world. From the moment you step back into this franchise, you feel the grain and grit of the desert sands dancing on your skin and seeping into every crevice. You can almost smell and taste the burning fuel exhaust in the air. All the while you are treated to visual madness and creative construction and destruction of vehicles in gloriously violent imagery. At the heart of it all, you are treated to a story of vengeance that's been told countless times, but it also shows a unique version of survival instinct and hubris. We follow the titular characters' origin story and although it may be rather thin, it is still entertaining as the world around her informs what type of person she eventually becomes.

Alyla Browne was great as the child version of Furiosa and to see where she came from and how quickly her innocence is taken away was sad and at times brutal. Anya Taylor-Joy has always been a knockout performer and she delivers an expertly controlled, dark and powerful performance as adult Furiosa. The amount of determination and strength in her eyes was awesome and I loved that there were moments that she got to experience a sense of compassion. She was a product of her environment and she handled every action sequence and limited dialogue scene with ease. Tom Burke was great as Praetorian Jack and for the time we spent with him, I almost thought he was Max in the way he handled himself on the war rig. His partnership with Furiosa was a major highlight of the film and the perfect length. Lachy Hulme was cool as younger Immortan Joe and he carried the same level of gravitas in every scene. I loved that we got to see more of his strategic mind at work while dealing with a new threat. Chris Hemsworth was completely animated, unhinged and yet charming as the new opportunistic warlord of the Biker Horde, Dr. Dementus. He truly leaned into the sadistic lunacy of the character that had a level of showmanship that I loved. You get the sense that while on the road he is in control, but once he does have his own settlement, he shows his strength and weaknesses as a leader. He is the classic definition of ones own hubris attacking him by the end. The tension between him and Furiosa was at the core of the film and it may be a long journey, but the moment they meet is the wonderfully brutal finale you hope it to be.

Composer Tom Holkenborg returns and his pulse pounding and thunderous score fuels every lengthy action set piece. There are moments of rest in between and I liked the haunting and sometimes ethereal nature of the score. The moments by a certain tree really bring out the lightest of tones. Visually the film is on par with the Fury Road, even though there are more CGI driven shots that don't exactly blend as seamlessly with the practical effects at times. I still enjoy visiting The Wasteland and this franchise over time as the creative and twisted mind of George Miller is on full display. For me, this film was a good prequel that gives even more depth to Furiosa even if it misses some of that same feeling of "WOW!". With that said, this still was a great entry into the franchise and in a marathon setting, this would definitely play before Fury Road as complete vision. Let me know what you thought of the film or my review in the comments below. Thanks for reading!

[fluidstatick]

Ok. Shit. Now that's the episode of C3 I've been waiting for.

Since the Hells got Laudna back, I've been waiting for her to hit the point where she has to choose between her patron and her family. Marisha's right: she's not a liar. But Ashton is also right: She needs to Apologize if she's ever going to get any trust back from the crew.

Yes, what Ashton did with the fire shard was self destructive and pointless. They thought it through; their decision was calculated but they were bad at math. Laudna's decision snowballed hard. She wanted information and control; Delilah promised her both of those things in exchange for Otohan's blade; Laudna folded like a bad poker hand immediately, and Orym finally hit his limit.

And Imogen, trying valiantly to do damage control. Imogen, finally confronting Laudna, only to find Delilah staring back at her? The darkness that Laudna swore Imogen was helping her hold at bay? What a horrible thing to be struck with. The End of the World could come climbing out of the moon at any moment, and all the Hellknow how to do is argue about who has the fortitude to wield the largest Magical Nuke.

Fearne avoided the fire shard because she didn't want it to make her into NegaFearne. It hasn't done anything to her (yet), but Zathuda isn't done trying. (Strangely, she seems to be handling temptation the best out of all of them??)

Orym started sliding toward revenge the moment he realized what Bor'dor really was. Everyone else was busy debating whether or not the gods becoming snacks would be Fine, Actually; they forgot to check in on him until things had already gotten Real on the moon. Now he's got the sword that killed his family, his friends, himself. And Delilah Wants It, and Laudna is losing the lines between her own resentment of it and Delilah's lust for it. (Marisha Ray. WHEW. Somebody give her a Streamy or an Emmy or a SAG award for that shit.)

And hello? Is anybody going to ask Dorian why he's so cavalier about destroying things he doesn't understand? "Do they have souls? what if we just killed them?"

Chetney and Ashton being the pragmatic, levelheaded, grounded ones right now is kinda terrifying. I love it.

We went from "Heyyyy Essek! Hi Pumat! Dorian... Orym, KISS HIM" to Nonononono ohhhh that's really bad with a quickness, and it was Damn Good Theater.

I hope the big bad isn't Ludinus, it's The Hells falling apart like wet toilet paper over their inability to lay down their pride. Calamity 2: The Power of Friendship vs Misguided Hubris. FIGHT.

[melishade]

In the Dark Timeline, will Megatron take up Shockwave's deal? He knows Porco, the humans would want to rescue him, and Optimus would want him back too since he technically left him behind after promising not to. Plus, none of them like Zeke anymore, so wouldn't Paradise be willing to trade a traitor for a child?

Previous Episode of the Dark Timeline

Yeah! If that traitor wasn’t of royal blood they’d sell him out for one corn chip! If the traitor was Reiner or Annie, they’d do it but they can’t!

————

Shockwave might’ve said that he doesn’t need Zeke to control his army, but he can clone Zeke and have infinite amount of Eldians that have royal blood at his disposal! It’s either that, or face a Colossal Titan full of dark energon!

Megatron is silently thinking this over as the whole military is fighting to the extreme about it. Some are saying to hand over Zeke, others are saying not to. Nothing really gets done that day.

The Survey Corps and Autobots discuss this in private while Megatron is still being quiet about this and trying to figure something out. Levi is saying to make that trade. If they don’t Shockwave could end up destroying everything they’ve worked for. But Optimus retorts that handing over Zeke will only delay that inevitable and he would clone powers of royal blood for generations to come. Hanji asks if the next Colossal Titan will have the powers of dark energon if Porco somehow managed to die in all this. But!

“Dark energon doesn’t allow for reincarnation,” Megatron spoke, earning all eyes and optics on him, “Killing Porco would prevent Shockwave from ever getting his hands on such a power again.”

“Megatron, we are not killing Porco,” Optimus declared with warning, “We are bringing him here and removing the dark energon from body.”

“And do we have the resources to remove all of it?” Megatron demanded.

“Wait.” Armin raised a hand, “Megatron, how are you sure that the Colossal Titan won’t be place in an Eldian baby?”

Silence radiated throughout the neutral ship as Megatron looked down at the floor. Optimus raised an eyebrow in confusion, before his optics widened in horror. “Megatron-,”

“Unicron told me that himself,” Megatron answered, “When I didn’t rejoin the Allspark after my death.”

“Wait, so you’re-!”

“This isn’t about me,” Megatron interrupted Arcee as he stood up, “We have a week to figure out a plan.”

Megatron leaves the room and Optimus quickly follows him out, leaving the others confused. Hanji asks what the hell were they talking about and Wheeljack ends up explaining that reincarnation is possible for Cybertronians, but because Megatron jammed dark energon in his spark, he’s permanently cut off from the process. He’s literally no longer Primus’ child. The Survey Corps can’t help but feel bad. Normally, Levi would say that he deserved it since it was Megatron’s own hubris that caused it, but after everything Megatron’s been doing…he can’t help but feel something.

Optimus and Megatron are talking in private and Optimus asks why Megatron didn’t say anything about his own situation. Megatron says that he thought Optimus knew. Optimus then retorts by saying that’s all the more reason to save Porco and get the dark energon out. It’s a battle for the teen’s soul and he’s suffered enough. Megatron then tells Optimus that he heard Porco in his head when he was over there, begging for help. Megatron believes that maybe there is a way to work around this plan and save Porco, if he can find a way to create a mental link with him. Optimus asks if that is possible, and Megatron says it should be based on his own experience. Megatron says he’s going to try, but before he does, is there anything that he should be careful in saying, and Optimus gives anything and everything he picked up on during his time in knowing him.

Optimus then returns to the others alone and explains that they need to figure out a plan to sabotage Shockwave. Shockwave will most likely use the ground bridge to come to the island and make the trade. It increases the risk for them. It’s been confirmed that Shockwave is at Fort Salta, maybe using Wheeljack and Arcee, they can destroy Shockwave’s base of operations. However, there’s still a concern about the Predacon and whether or not it will be present on base or with Shockwave. It’s a gamble that they need to take. They still haven’t found a way to kill it.

Optimus does ask about Zeke’s involvement. He knows that they can’t trust him, but they can’t let them be in Shockwave’s claws. Jean retorts that it’s hard to trust him when he tried to poison their own. Optimus asks to see Zeke and Levi decides that he’ll take him there. The two grab Lara and they go to an open field. Optimus is confused, until Lara uses her power to open an underground tunnel to Zeke’s prison. The three go down there and Optimus (in holoform) is almost mortified to see the literal scarring on Zeke’s neck from the constant injection of energon in his throat while he’s completely malnourished. Zeke notices Levi and is actually reduced to begging with his torn vocal cords for mercy. Optimus is looking at the both of them in anger while Levi stubbornly looks away. Lara justifies that the military was infected with spinal fluid, it was a risk they couldn’t take.

Optimus gets the end goal, but the methods wasn’t savory in his opinion. Optimus still sees Zeke trembling and opens the bars to his cell. Zeke begs Optimus to stay away, not realizing that it’s him, but Optimus after everything he’s been through, shows mercy. Optimus hugs Zeke, stunning all three of them. For Zeke, this is the first positive interaction that he’s had in months. It was something that he had taken for granted, and he started crying. Optimus lets him go and Zeke realizes that this is Optimus. He was alive. Zeke hasn’t been more grateful. Sure, he’s thought about a long winded euthanasia plan, but he was afraid of a brutal death under Megatron. Optimus tells Zeke about Shockwave’s demand for a trade between the two of them, and Zeke is terrified. He’s fully prepared to here them say that they’ll sell him out. After all, Zeke was going to betray them, but Optimus tells him that they won’t do that. They’ll do everything in their power to save Porco and keep him safe, but Zeke needs to cooperate willingly. Zeke weighs his options, but remembers what Shockwave has done, and is afraid of what he’ll do to him, so Zeke agrees.

Meanwhile, Megatron has locked himself in a room on the neutral ship, meditating and trying to establish a mental link with Porco, but Megatron can’t, because part of him is afraid of tapping into dark energon again. He’s afraid of becoming corrupted again, turning on his new allies, and possibly letting Unicron take over again. It’s a fear, but an understandable one. Megatron hears a knock on the door and is surprised to see Armin walk in the room. Armin asks what Megatron is doing, and Megatron says it’s not important as he’s trying to focus, but Armin retorts saying that they need him to come up with a plan. Megatron explains that he is trying to come up with a plan. Armin is confused and Megatron relents and says he’s trying to establish a mental link with Porco to see through his eyes and figure out what Shockwave is planning. Armin is stunned at the proclamation, but Megatron explains that such an ability is possible with dark energon. But he just…can’t tap into it. Dark energon is dangerous, and it’s a power Megatron underestimated and…fears. It’s a power he can lose himself in. Armin says that Megatron is one of the strongest people he knows, but Megatron retorts that even the strong fear something. He’s not sure if the risk is worth the reward. But Armin retorts by saying that sometimes, one needs to become a monster in order to achieve their goals. Erwin and so many others have had to abandon their humanity in order to achieve something, and it’s something Shockwave is able to do with ease. Megatron needs to be able to do that, because it’s something that the island so desperately needs. Megatron thinks this over, and says he’ll try again. But in the event that he looses himself, he tells Armin that he cares about the island and the the Survey Corps and that whatever he has done in the past, he is sorry for. Armin is stunned, but he promises to relay that message to the others. Armin leaves Megatron alone, and Megatron tries again, forgoes his fears and dives deep into the powers of dark energon.

And is able to establish a link.

(Kay. I’ll leave it here for right now. I’m typing this from my phone at a Honda dealer. Lol.)

[entropic-introspection]

Malevolent inspired brain worms that quickly spiraled completely out of control:

Kayne mentions listening in on the confrontation with the King from “up in the nosebleeds”, which like. What if someone else was there. And she got to actually yell at Arthur for a minute, like the casual self-insert she began as. “How do I begin to tell a man about meta-textuality when he can’t even identify what a genre is.”

But my particular worm-can (brain) is like. Hold up. Who is she, why’s she there. It can’t be you because you’re you. And I’m like, good point worms! (I can’t ever self insert for long, or else the worms escape their can.)

She’s… interested not in the players, but in the story. She’s powerful enough that she can be involved, but not so strong as to directly influence the narrative. She’s… a Muse!

This satiates the worms of the worm can, for all of a moment. “There’s 9 muses. Which one is she?” I decide on Terpsichore, because that was the only one I could remember that wasn’t Urania (astronomy) or Calliope (music). Surely she’s related to narrative? I am now compelled to check. Oh, she’s the Muse of dance, actually. This drives the brain worms into a tizzy, because she wouldn’t necessarily be interested in the narrative the same way some of her sisters would be, but oh! Oh! PARALLELS! Fuck yes the King in Yellow, heralded by dancers, in the original novel met/brought about by masquerade within the play, would be interested in Terpsichore. (In the interest of keeping some mystery, she now gives her name to Arthur/John as “Hickory”, reasoning that it at least rhymes. She tries to stay vague, but astute or classically minded readers can pick up on her mentioning multiple sisters and other Grecian tells.)

“”Hickory”” has a long and complicated history with the King, which is to say he would like her to dance for him alone and she can’t promise that. Her sisters have different feelings about it, because Urania would really like to study the Hyades (the dark stars of Carcosa), which necessitates at least sort of playing along with the King. Comedy and Tragedy have different outlooks as to how a relationship could turn out (as, in Greek theater, love and marriage is exclusively the province of comedy. Tragedy is about hamartia, hubris, and meeting messy ends. If I recall my hs drama classes right.) The King gifted her a necklace that is a literal star, one of the Hyades, set in gold, as a necklace, which like. That’s very nice! Very… shiny. Like a black opal. But not the best gift for the Muse of dance. And there are complicated feelings and otherworldly politics and also Kayne, who thinks this is all hilarious, hence why he dragged her along in the first place.

As you can tell this is very much spiraling out of any sort of purview of the podcast but also indelicately tied to it, so like. I preserve my thoughts here, amber to dig up by an enterprising fandom archaeologist. If you make Jurassic Park (the fic), send me a ticket, I’ll grab popcorn.

[godstaff]

Happyhoganon: Is Lex Luthor a good president in your SMWW universe? Did he stay as The Prez for three terms or just one?

We have to admit most Presidents didn't rise or stay in power for being good people, so there's no reason to think Lex was better or worse than any other. Besides, he's desperate to show Superman and the World he's not the villain, but a savior. As for his number of years, it depends if his party and the powerful thinks he's useful for them: he'll stay as long as they can use him. He knows the game, because he's been part of it for decades. What the others don't know is how devious he is. They think they can control him...he knows better. Politics is just kid's play for him. He'll stay as long it is useful for himself.

A dark player of the politics game in my country. One of those who pulls the strings in the shadows, was asked once why didn't he put himself on the chair. He responded, chuckling, "President?? Naaah: that's a small position. I aspire to greatness, which I can achieve moving the pieces in the shadows."

Yes, like the Koch bros. in America.

I thought Luthor was that kind of person. His need for recognition played a lousy trick on the worst part of him. Plus his envy of the love people have for Superman, which he can't stand. Ego and hubris are always the enemies of a brilliant mind.

Best laid plans fail because of them.

How many close people got Batso killed because he was convinced of his infallibility? Luckily, writers resurrected most of them, and now we have like 50 undead sidekicks, but he got them killed because he was sure he could control every outcome. Hubris. The multitude Brother Eye killed are still dead. They weren't part of the Batso family. The many people Joker kills every day are still dead too. Not Jason: he got a pass out of dead because he was adopted by Bruce.

Luthor had it all. He didn't need the presidency, but his ego got the best of him, his need to show his father he's worthy. I hope he came to his senses and didn't lasted more than one period. Remember on the Justice Lords' Earth being preisident caused Superman to kill him. Luthor doesn't need the exposure.

Remember: presidents come and go, Koch brothers are eternal.

[justjessame]

Light Through the Darkness: Chapter 33

Salvatore Garden~ Time Uncertain, Still, Forevermore

As the sun comfortably warmed her, Abigail took a moment to take stock of what she'd learned from her shadow visitors so far.

From Damon she'd learned that keeping her feelings for him buried; the good, the bad, the unrequited, had done nothing aside from piling up her already heavy emotional baggage to critical levels. Even her papa's trick for leveraging off heavy burdens wouldn't help with this load.

Sallie's appearance brought her guilt to the forefront. Her belief that she had the power to control anyone's destiny, even her own , with or without the shadow visions that plagued her outside this realm was laughable. Hadn't she read the poets and their warnings against such hubris? Seeing Sallie and having her release Abi from the strain of all that guilt and pain she had retained from every death she couldn't prevent.

Lily had given her the first confirmation to her own realization about keeping silent. Reigning in her emotions and reactions to all the stress and grief she'd been through was acting as a stopper. Having her mother figure give her permission to do that, after already been forced to release it, helped. And seeing Lily healthy and at peace was a balm to her soul.

Waiting for the next to step forward, Abigail felt she knew who it might be. She'd miss him so much, only Lily's more recent death would have ever put her to the forefront of her mind. When she opened her eyes to the vision of him, she was prepared for his admonishment.

"Really, my angel," her papa scolded, "a beautiful day and you haven't brought a book?"

Her choked sob was laced with a chuckle. "Sorry, papa." She answered standing and throwing herself into his waiting arms.

As he embraced her, they stood a moment clutching one another. She felt his hands running down the length of her hair, checking it seemed for how long it had grown since he'd gone. She was the same height, fitting perfectly under his chin, her head pressed against his chest.

"You're a woman now, Abigail." His voice filled with wonder. "Have I been gone so long?"

She sniffled and came under enough control to answer. "Five years, papa." She pulled back to look into eyes that matched her own. "Five very long years."

He pulled her back to the bench and kept her in his embrace. "In these long five years, Abigail, have you found the man to replace me in your heart?" His tone was light, and she knew he should know already, but realized that this must be a piece of the puzzle to leave her prison.

Abigail stiffened. Even with the knowledge that this was entirely in her own mind, it was something she had never said out loud.

She felt herself blush. "I would think that you'd be watching me, Papa." She still found it difficult to admit to. "I was in love with someone, but it ended badly." Understatement of the decade.

"Badly?" He asked, disbelief coloring his voice. "Tell me, Abigail."

"I loved Damon, Papa." Her voice was barely above a breath. She'd never said it plainly. Never given it credence. "And he broke my heart." Her tears came rushing back. The pain of knowing what everyone could see, but one they could feel was torn from her. "He broke me."

The story tumbled from her lips as her pain burst free. She'd thought raging at Damon had been enough. Clearly it hadn't been. As she told her papa, the good, the bad, and the most painful, she felt herself lighten.

"And now he's like HER." She hissed, feeling anger rush to replace the loss. "He chose to die for her then he chose to become exactly what she was, Papa." The anger and pain mingled, taking her breath.

"Did he, Abigail?" Her papa asked, like he would have once questioned her about the heroes in her books. "Did he come back for HER?"

Abigail looked into her father's eyes through her tears. "Why else, Papa?" A question for a question, not always welcome in their discussions.

"He didn't transition alone," her papa offered. "Did he have a choice, or was his choice made for him?"

"He wanted to turn for her, Papa." She replied, returning to her original ire.

Papa, wisdom shining in those green eyes. "And yet, she was gone, and he still turned." He studied her. "Don't allow the things men, or women, do during the heat of lust and obsession compel you to forget what made you fall in love with him." Before she could speak he continued. "He did make you safe, my love."

"After trying to kill me, burying me in the family crypt, and don't forget leaving me alone with my thoughts." She was feeling petulant and holding on to her grudge with both hands.

Her papa's laughter startled her. "That fire, Abigail. The feeling of anger and frustration, what you imagine is hatred, it proves you and Damon have more to your story." She glared at him and he gave another chuckle. "Hatred isn't the opposite of love, jenta mi, indifference is."

Hearing the term of endearment "jenta mi" from her father's lips sparked a long buried memory of the night of the fire. Pulling her away from the garden, she remembered confessing to him the vision that raged from the darkness and he'd said, "De har funnet oss, jenta mi." She didn't recall him ever speaking another language before that night, but she when she asked what he said, he lied. Because now she knew he said, "They found us, my girl." Even as he'd told her not to worry and it was time for bed, he knew it was coming.

"You knew," she said, pulling away from the memory and sitting back to fully look at her father. "That night, you knew you were going to die." The accusation was thick, her pain almost palpable.

Her papa, the solemn Eric Morgan, looked abashed. "I did, my darling girl." He looked down at his hands. "Death had stalked us through the ages. Coming here, having you, I always felt that we were baiting the bear." Tears were flowing down his face now. "Your mother and I made a terrible choice that night. We faced death willingly, but made certain you were hidden. Keeping you safe from the monster that stalked us was our only concern." He offered his hand and she took it, needing his strength. "Leaving you, even knowing that you were safe among mortals and would be loved by Lily, felt more painful than the act of dying ever could be."

"Mortals?" She knew she was different, but how different was still a mystery. "Papa, what am I?"

"It's almost time for me to go, jenta mi," he stated, seeming to hear a sound she couldn't. "Promise me, when you leave here, that you will return to where we last said goodbye. You'll find answers there, and that is my promise to you." Kissing Abigail on her forehead, in a warm rush of air he was gone.

She screamed, letting all of her pain and confusion free in a burst of angst. Leaving was coming closer, but she knew she would retain her turmoil, at least in part. The frustration of not knowing what she really was, nor what had hunted her parents being slid into a small compartment inside her.

Mystic Falls, VA~ Mid-Late December 2009

Damon hadn't expected help in his quest to free Katherine, but he sure as hell didn't expect a second group side-questing toward the same goal. Well, technically Anna only wanted her mother, Pearl, but their goals being so similar it irked him when he realized she was pulling the rug from under him.

Turning moronic Logan Fell, abducting Elena and Bonnie all the attempts to find the same puzzle pieces to do what he planned. Jesus, would it hurt to work together? Or better plan, stay out of his damn way.

Opening the tomb sucked, because all of his work, all of his push through came to nothing. Katherine wasn't even inside. His hero haired brother and his one far too sexy self nearly became entombed by two very uppity Bennett witches. All in all, irritating. It did not break his heart when he learned that dear old Grams Bennett died. Good, naturally caused death meant the technically kept his vow to Emily.

So as Christmas bore, heavy on the 'dom', down on him for another year, he wondered how well he had actually known Katherine Pierce?