#is this to put the fear of god in me (read: fear of tumblr leaked to irls)

[pretypidge]

Have you heard of our lord and Savior Jesus? - Hugh

lol im he

[ashyronfire]

mourning

Title: mourning

Rating: T

Characters: Grimm, Hornet, mentioned the Radiance, mentioned the Hollow Knight, mentioned the Knight

Warnings: POV Second Person, Dream No More spoilers, References to Abuse, References to Gaslighting, It/Its Pronouns for the vessels, Drabble

Summary:

“The King is dead. Long live the King.” A conversation within the Temple of the Black Egg.

Author’s Notes: For @voidsiblings who has been poking me to write Hornet. This is me doing it without doing it. You never said it had to be her point of view.

(Unedited, we do it live)

White and Gray & Red Sky adjacent, by the way.

Read on Ao3 or Tumblr below the cut.

“The world is at its end, sister, and we have lived to see it – together. Separate. But both of us yet live. Both of us are alive and by this time tomorrow, neither of us will be.”

Hallownest.

That is the name of the kingdom you stand within. You visited it once, before the fall; you remember keenly the clamoring of people bustling about their day-to-day life, the sounds of commerce, of trade, of civility, of falling rain and armored guards, clank-clank-clank –

It was beautiful once. Beautiful in the way that the skeletal remains of a carcass left behind by predators was: alluring, a little off-putting, both natural and not, and an unmistakable reminder of the passage of time. You find it poetic, then, that that same reminder festers within the bloated belly of the corpse. Decay has set in, brought with it a stench and the putrid release of gasses, and within the ‘last and eternal civilization,’ the rot comes in hues of molten gold.

Caverns will never be a comfortable thing for you. Your sordid history paints them as an agonizing reminder – of water leaking from limestone, of stalactites reflecting the unnatural light of your eyes – and you usually avoid them. When pushed, though, you can summon up the façade of courage to face the things that you fear. You can paint your face beautiful with a mask of bravery and you might even convince yourself, if you pretend hard enough.

This will be the last time that you ever have to.

You stare at the great egg. It is an architectural marvel, magic breathing through the seals that line the floor, the walls, the door, as if it is alive. On the other side of that barrier lay a creature born specifically for the purpose of containing her – bred, created, the god they would have been ripped from their shell as they and the others like them were sacrificed to the pooling mass beneath the world, the end of all things.

An end.

A beginning.

“I wonder if you can hear me?”

No answer comes. The seals on the door draw your attention. Three crevices rest over it, the black stone polished where they once stood: cleaner and less faded from age, the Dreamers’ symbols acting as a bulwark against the creeping passage of time. The inky color of the egg was probably magnificent once, polished to a perfect sheen, but the ages have stolen it away, faded it to a mottled, uncomfortable gray. The wyrm’s magic has not changed, though. It is still impressive, luminescent, and bright: the white seals glow a brilliant contrast and they hold.

As much as they can, anyway.

Infection blooms in spiderweb vines, pulsing with amber blood, trailing out to pustulant growths that shiver in the cool air.

Her prison is fading.

Her prison is a person and they are losing the fight. As they always would have, really. Nothing alive could ever truly hold an immortal being forever. You are proof of that. Bodies in the waking world are not designed to hold creatures of essence. The two of you exist outside of their sphere and it is your nature to raze to the ground anything in your wake. Harsh is the sun.

There is a spell outside of the door and a letter. The letter is written in scrawl that you recognize well as the wyrm’s handwriting and it is painful to read, his last testament to his progeny cursed with a responsibility to his unnatural kingdom.

For it is unnatural. It is a perversion of the order between life and death. You have never beheld so terrible a spectacle as Hallownest is – and it is not your sister’s ruinous path, carved golden in her wake, that makes it horrifying to you. It is his. It was always his.

Surrender to fear. Fail.

Live on as a dying thing, clinging with crooked claws, gouging great scratches into the metaphorical clock, that it might stop, that death never come. Hallownest is eternal. And it can never rise from its ashes, something beautiful and new in its place. No, it is embalmed as it is, preserved as a mockery of life. As is the wyrm’s way.

He has never understood you.

“You have a chance to greatly inconvenience me, should you win,” you tell her. You think, through his final spell on the cursed prison that he has created for her, that he has given her eyes to watch the land rot and decay. You also think that in doing so, he has spelled his destruction, and its inevitable failure. For how can a creature condemned to a fate of pain resist the allure of something else, something different? And how can she, ever the embodiment of hope (and despair – always despair), not chase glimpses of freedom when offered them?

She hears you, but she cannot respond. The seals prevent it and, you think, for once she is probably grateful for that.

How strange, to be the one reaching out to speak. How strange, to be the one awaiting an answer and have none come. How strange, to be the one free.

She’d beg you to help her. She would scream and plead. You can almost hear her voice, piteously crying, “You are my brother, Fear, how can you allow this to continue? Help me, help me, as I would have you,” and it wounds your heart. There is nothing left for her in this world; there is no one left to mourn the light of dawn rising over the horizon.

There is no one left to remember the Radiance.

Except you. Always you.

The Nightmare King cannot die, after all. There will ever be fear – and the courage to overcome it – and so you are forever: a flame without end. Eternal.

You raise one hand and brush the tips of your claws over the front of the shell. This Temple is built inside of one of the great beasts that the butterflies who worshipped the void also revered. Fitting that her tomb would be within the husk of a creature that she herself struck down in her prime. There is poetic irony in that. She feared the dark and it is the dark that yet comes for her.

There are footsteps, light as a feather, behind you. She has more legs than you’d think, the Protector of Hallownest, but you know the cadence of her steps. She steps in her own prints when she needs to not be bipedal and she hides the rest beneath her cloak, but a spider will always be a spider.

“You should not be here.” She does not come into the Temple proper. She stays at the door. Your eyes lift to see her reflection in the dust and you raise one hand to swipe it off; your hand comes away with a filmy residue that you brush off with the second one. Scarlet meets black. You do not retreat, and she does not draw her needle, though the ever-so-subtle twitch of her fingers lends credence to the idea that she wants to.

The Princess of Hallownest does not enjoy you.

It is, at least partially, mutual.

“Should I not?” You settle your arms beneath your wings and shift, so that they fall to cover your entire body like a shroud.

The spider moves, the fabric cloak that she wears pulling taut on the extra limbs that it hides. Her fingers give another twitch, claws curling into themselves. “This is a place of mourning and –”

“And I am here to mourn.” Your interruption earns you a scoff, and so you finally turn toward her. Your gaze has to drift down in order to meet hers, even with her several paces away, hiding by the exit as if she needs to make a hasty getaway. Her fear is a thing with wings, but it is not your sister’s. No, hers has a distinctly pale light, and it surrounds her; it hides the shadows of regret that paint her black to your vision – you, who see feelings as colors.

The Pale Gift is black and gray over the crimson of her cape. She is drowning in a pain that she cannot let go.

Isn’t that familiar?

“What of you, Princess-Protector? What brings you to this place, forgotten by time?” You know the answer. The masks are gone and the door is ready to open, to fall before your summoner – the reason you are here at all. She knows, too. She can sense that the hands of fate are moving again, tugging on time and destiny like the threads of a tapestry, to rework and weave anew.

Will it be enough to save this dying land? No. But perhaps it will peel aside the second shell that locks it away and refuses to allow it to fade properly.

Burn.

“…I am also mourning,�� she answers, her tone even and her stare flat. “It is my sibling in that prison, a sacrifice to keep this land from the clutches of the likes of you as long as possible.”

You smile beneath your mask; she cannot see it. Your hands fold under your cape and loll your head to the side to look at an angle back up at the seals.

“And it is my sibling that will deliver it unto me.”

There is delicious irony in that fact. Your sister does not want Hallownest to die. She wants to own it and its people. Death is counter to her goals and yet –

That is exactly what she is causing.

That is what she always causes, you’ve found. In an effort to keep a vice grip of control on the things that she considers to be hers, she rips them apart. And, unapologetically, she holds them responsible rather than admit her role in their demise. You are sure that even now, to the one within whom she is imprisoned, she must be insisting that she has been wronged – that she is suffering for another’s actions and not her own. For she will never learn and she will never change.

Knowing all of that, why then do you feel guilty, standing before what will soon become her tomb?

Knowing all of that, why then do you blame yourself for not interfering sooner? Or now?

It is your way to hold yourself accountable for things beyond your control. You know that her actions are not your own. You could not have stopped her and you could not have saved Hallownest without first sentencing it to a worse fate. Those thoughts should bring you comfort but here, at the end of your days, when tomorrow you know not if you will live at all, you cannot find it within yourself to be assuaged.

The spider steps away toward you. Each individual movement is measured, cautious and quiet, with an intensity in her glare that would have made a lesser bug cower in fear. When a predator approaches with that kind of stance, it is usually a good idea to step aside. But, butterfly or not, you are not afraid of any natural predator – not even a half-god like she is.

The Princess looks up at the door.

“It is coming back, the little ghost, and when it does, she will die. Do you intend to interfere? Or will you stand by and watch?”

You look down at her over your shoulder and shift your weight purposefully; it puts you on your heels, ready to backstep if she decides to attack. You do not expect her to, but you have never trusted strangers well, and she –

She is wyrmkin. She knows what you are and, if she is anything like her sire, she will seek to stand in your way.

“I would ask you the same thing,” you offer.

Her head bows. “I will not endanger myself in its attempt to put right the trials of time. I have a duty to Hallownest – a responsibility, a charge left to me by our King and –”

You interrupt her rant with a scoff and she freezes. Your idle hand motion earns you a withering, expectant glare, her shoulders tense, and you think you hear her chelicerae click in agitation.

“The King is dead. Long live the King.”

“Hallownest—” she begins.

You hold one hand up to stop her, then move to circle her in interest. “Hallownest is also dead, Princess. You cannot breathe life into its corpse by hope alone. Hope rests in a prison built to contain her. Learn the lesson of her mistakes.” Can she hear you, your sister, you wonder again? Does she know what you are saying? You can envision her seething in response. “I came to say goodbye. If the vessel accomplishes what it means to, there will be no tomorrow. If I intended to provide her with aid, I would have done it long ago. This kingdom is far past its prime. It is time to lay it in the ground and let it fade.”

If it succeeds in its goal, you will die. You have thought many times about what that would be like for you – you, who cannot, who will never fade from existence. Once, you sought the peace of the end, but now? Presented with its very real possibility? Now, you are frightened. You will not let it show, though. Not in front of the Princess of this long forgotten land, and certainly not in front of your sister, if she is watching with stolen eyes through the door.

Be brave, Fear.

The spider looks down. She is considering your words, you think, though her mask does not belie any emotion.

You are afraid. So is she. The little ghost intends to unspool time, to undo the pains of the past. It seeks to change fate from the very onset and you – you wish it luck. You have become fond of it in the time since your summoning, as you always do with those who give you a fragment of themselves by calling your Troupe to their lands. You want to see it succeed. But if it does – you will cease to be.

Perhaps another version of you will remain.

You step away from the egg, yet sealed, and one claw reaches out. The tip of it brushes along the underside of one of the throbbing arteries of infection. It splits under the sharp point and you leave little droplets of gold in your wake; you do not turn around to watch them fall.

“But you will stand idle, will you not?” you ask as you reach the door. “Ever the loyal soldier to your father, to your king. Ever a slave to your duty.” You turn around to look at her and the spider has her back to you. “What if you were not, though? What if, for once in your life… you made the choice to help the family that you clearly mourn? Be brave, Princess. Your time to decide the difference between who you are and who you want to be is running out.”

You hear the needle collide with the wall of the Temple. The resounding echo of the metal splitting through shell is loud in the silence. You do not turn around, nor do you flinch – which you suspect will incense her.

You leave her to her thoughts instead.

None of this will matter tomorrow, if the little ghost wins, and that is both comforting and depressing at the same time. If it fails, you will be trapped in your ailing, dying body, until the Ritual can be completed.

You would rather it win…

…but the end of the world is as bleak as it should be.

[celestiabyss]

🌠 INTRODUCTION TIME 🌠

Hey everyone! Celesti here 😆 You might know me as "celesti | ayaka haver" (@celestiabyss) from Twitter!

I tweet Genshin lore theory threads and lore thoughts whenever I feel like it (and if I have the braincells and energy to do so HAHAH). I also sometimes stream Genshin and Honkai: Star Rail on Twitch as a PNGtuber!

🌠 NAVIGATION 🌠

Genshin Theories - detailed, structured theories about Genshin lore; usually take a long time to make because I have to gather screenshots from all over HAHAH

Genshin Thoughts - random rambles or quick speculations I have about Genshin lore; less structured than Genshin Theories

Reading Lists / Watch Lists - just some lists of Genshin references for me to look back on when I'm having trouble processing and remembering stuff

Twitter - my primary notepad for all things Genshin and Honkai: Star Rail

Twitch - where I stream Genshin and Honkai: Star Rail

Youtube - where I upload my Genshin and Honkai: Star Rail Twitch VODs and other future vids

Misskey (NEW!) - another backup if Twitter breaks down! I don't know what to do there yet, I just wanna dibs the username

🌠 GENSHIN LORE INTERESTS 🌠

Plot patterns and themes (e.g. Teyvat's cyclicality)

Makoto and Ei + their views on Eternity

Dainsleif and everything he says

Role Analysis on the Traveler and the Abyss Twin

The Travail Trailer

The role of dreams, ambitions, wishes, memories, stories, willpower, and fears on Teyvat

Domains, mirages, spaces, realms of consciousness

Archons (especially those who don't belong in the Original Seven like Ei and Nahida) and other gods like Istaroth

Any mention of Celestia and the Abyss together

Khaenri'ah, Enkanomiya, the Chasm

🌠 HSR LORE INTERESTS 🌠

Aeons, Paths, and Factions (favorites: Fuli the Remembrance, Garden of Recollection, The Cremators)

Stellaron Hunters

High Cloud Quintet (especially JINGLIU MY QUEEN)

Whatever is going on between Blade, Dan Heng, Yingxing, and Dan Feng

🌠 FUTURE TUMBLR CONTENT 🌠

This blog will serve as a backup archive for the Genshin lore theory threads and lore thoughts I have on Twitter.

It will take some time for me to put them here, and since some stuff in my Twitter threads might already be outdated by the time you read them, I'll also indicate the dates of the tweets and the Genshin version number (e.g. 3.2).

If the thread has content that spans multiple versions before or after a certain update, I'll indicate them as "pre-(version number)" or "post-(version number)".

🌠 HEADS UP 🌠

I'm still very new to Tumblr. Please bear with me as I try to figure out how to navigate the app! I'll also still have to learn how to customize my blog's appearance HAHAH 😆 Hopefully, I'll be able to make a more organized masterlist!

Please don't discuss leaks with me. This includes comments, reblogs, and asks (if I ever open my asks).

If I have Genshin lore theories/lore thoughts that are posted within the 1st to 3rd week of the current version update, they will be spoiler-tagged.

Please be respectful. Observe basic human decency at all times. I also don't tolerate gatekeeping and looking down on other lore theories/lore thoughts that don't align with yours. Please do your best to make the Genshin lore community a fun and insightful safe space to gush and share about the lore!

That's all! See you soon and enjoy Version 3.2 🌠

[xuxszx]

quarantine haircut |Henry Cavill

Pairing: Henry Cavill x Reader

Warning: none

Words: 1153

A/N: So I wrote something which was in my head for soo long, and I actually wrote it one day, but Tumblr decided it wasn’t as good as it should be 😂 and delete it. So I decided to write it once again, and here we are.

But I don’t know if I should tag someone or not 😩 so if you don’t want to be tagged just tell me 😄😘

Hope you like it ♥

It was another day of quarantine and Henry looked almost like at Nomis. To tell the truth, you didn't mind - his lovely curls returned, but Henry insisted he had to cut his hair and beard. And you could survive his hair, but you wouldn't let him cut his beard. After all, he looked even more handsome in it, if it was possible.

"Then cut my hair, and if you do well I will use you to the beard too" he said one evening. At first you firmly refused, bald Henry Cavill has never been shown to the world. It was good that way. In fact, you've never seen him like this before. But when he really wanted to shave and cut his hair like in Sand Castle, you took matters into your own hands.

After watching dozens of tutorials, reading several articles and ordering all the necessary stuff like hair razors, scissors, combs and hairdressing clips - both of you were ready for what was to happen in the bathroom, where according to Henry was the best light and place.

He sat comfortably in the chair he had brought from the dining room. Everything was fine, you covered his shoulders with a cape, combed his hair a few times with a brush and then with a comb. You separated the upper part of the hair from the side ones and the trouble began only when the razor came into your hands. Your hands were trembling terribly, and your heart is beating like crazy.

"Hey. Relax, babe. It'll be okay, in the worst case I'll be bald. Besides, no one but you and Kal will see me, we are still sitting at home" he said, grabbing your trembling hands in his. “Hey, look at me. Take a deep breath and do it. For me, hmm?” he added, doing Geralt's 'hmm' and you were ready do anything for him.

So once again you took the hair trimmer and set the first line at ear level. You drove the machine down the line and that's how Henry Cavill became a bald man. To shorten part of the hair above the marked line, you have caught the scissors and, with a help of comb, slowly cut long strands of hair. It takes you so much time, that Henry was fidgeting on the chair. 

"Don't you dare to move, Henry" you said, cutting another part of his hair. He muttered something that sounded like "Fine, mom" and you rolled your eyes. Sometimes he was ridiculous. But you loved him with all of your heart. 

When you finished cutting the sides and it was time to take care of the tip of his hair, you groaned quietly. You had no idea how to do it, and closely watching you Henry didn’t help at all.You pulled out the hair clips and curls fell on his forehead. He looked charming, but you promised him you would cut it.

Cut hair fell to the ground like raindrops on a rainy day. And Henry looked more like August Walker than Walter Marshall.Cut hair fell to the ground like raindrops on a rainy day. And Henry looked more like August Walker than Walter Marshall. Although his beard still looked like Captain's Syverson.

Henry moved a few more times in the chair, but you didn't even comment on that. You tried to do everything in your power to make your man look his best.That he could put some Instagram selfies that all his fans were waiting for with you. To be honest, how many food photos he could share.

"I don't know, maybe you really should cut your hair like Captain Syverson has" you said, when you tossed scissors and comb on cupboard. All this cutting his hair, takes you almost one and half hour. ”What do you think?”

“It’s… better than I thought it will be” he said, as he was looking at himself in the mirror. “Thanks, babe” he turn around to you, and kiss you in the middle of your lips. The kiss was sweet. “So… do you want to shave my beard?”

“I don't think it's a good idea. You'll do it better" 

“Yeah, but you know how it is…”

“You’ll make a hole in the middle of your cheek and you’ll have to cut it all, I know” you interrupted him. “You really want me to do it? Cause I don’t think I can handle this.”

“I believe you can do it” he encouraged you, and God! He could asked you for anything with those his eyes and smile. He was your weakness and he know about it so well.

"You're abusing me, Mr. Cavill"

“This isn't abuse…” Henry denied, but come on! He exactly known what to do to force you to something. 

“So what it is?” you asked as you takes comb and combed his thick beard.

“Ok, fine it’s abusing” he admitted. 

If you thought cutting hair was difficult then shortering his beard was even more difficult. But it was all Henry's fault, which was fidgeting all the time. Even when you were holding razor near his face, he couldn't be still. You groaned in fear when, correcting some of the shortcomings, the razor rolled down his neck and the red liquid leaked from under the blade.

“Oh, my fucking God! What I’ve done!” you screamed. You threw the blade to the sink and pressed the towel to his neck. Everything was almost fine and you had to cut him at the very end. He looked surprised at the whole situation. But when he shook himself, he grabbed the towel that you clung to his neck so tightly, and standing in front of the mirror, he pushed the fabric away and saw a little cut which only a scab left.”I told you it was a bad idea!”

“Calm down, woman. I'm fine” he told, as you take off the cape of his shoulders. Henry looked at himself in the mirror and gently touched his new beard and hair.

“I'm so sorry, Henry” you apologised once again, when he was standing under shower and you were cleaning all the mess in the bathroom.

"I told you it's okay. Do you know how many times I've hurt? he asked, then came outta the shower. Damn, he looked so handsome and delicious, that you unconsciously licked your lips. "Do you see something you like, little bird?" 

“Maybe”

"How much do I owe you?" He asked, pulling you closer to him. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and gently pinched your cheek as all the annoying aunts did.

"I think the cake is enough" you smiled at him and then kissed him. Henry looked really good in this version of him. But to be honest, this man would look great even in a trash bag. "And a lot of cardio in... maybe kitchen this time?"

Tag list: @thethirstyarchive @hnryycvll @mrsaugustwalker @yespolkadotkitty @onlyhenrys @laketaj24 @littlefreya @ifuseekamycavill @avengersandlovers @supersweetstache @dangerouslovefanfic @followyoursecretsmutblog @honeychicana @viking-raider

[aforrestofstuff]

“Is this the ask box? Dude I have no idea where to submit crap but here it goes: The S Class have a group chat, what’s it called and do they chat shit about Amai Mask in it? Does anyone send memes? What do they talk about? I feel as if you’re the best person to ask crap like this too”

You sent me a submission. But that’s ok, tumblr is hard. It took me like 4 months to figure out how to turn anon on so you’re already a step ahead of me lol.

How the S-Class heroes text and what they would do in a group chat:

So, the name of the group chat would probably just be “S-Class”. Nobody really wastes their time trying to change it because Child Emperor would just change it back.

Yes, they make snide remarks about Amai all the time. Metal Bat especially.

I’m gonna give a rundown on what each S-Class hero does in the group chat and then give you their texting style when talking to other people (with a screenshot):

Tornado of Terror:

Group chat: Only talks shit in the group chat. Pulls no punches. She’s salty 24/7 and only agreed to be a member of the chat just so she can berate the other S-Class heroes in the event that they fuck up even a little bit.

Texting style: Her texting style is a lot. Just... a lot of words in caps. If you don’t respond to her within five minutes, she’ll spam the living hell out of your phone. She’s so angry. Someone help her.

Silverfang:

Group chat: Nonexistent. He reads all of the messages but never participates in conversation. He rarely ever uses his phone anyway. The Messages app is the only app on his home screen.

Texting style: A... lot... of.... dots..... Texts like an old man on Facebook. He doesn’t know how to implement contact names so he just memorizes everyone’s number.

Atomic Samurai:

Group chat: Also nonexistent. He has that shithead boomer attitude that all new technology is evil and useless, so he doesn’t even bother reading the messages in the chat either.

Texting style: he rarely uses his phone. He just has one because Iaian’s cell carrier gave him a freebie. Atomic Samurai texts surprisingly well, he’s just super salty about it. His only contacts are his three disciples, and he would’ve had to resort to remembering their numbers like Silverfang had they not put their names in themselves.

Child Emperor:

Group chat: serves as moderator. He basically does anything the Hero Association execs doesn’t wanna do, so he’s in charge of keeping the group chat friendly (which is almost impossible).

Texting style: perfect grammar. Very professional. All of his contacts are labeled specifically and he uses a different phone each week because he’s paranoid of any information leaks.

Metal Knight:

Group chat: He would be a moderator like Child Emperor but then the Hero Association grew a brain cell and said fuck that. Because of this, he’s requested to be left out of it. He wouldn’t give enough of a fuck to read the messages nor engage in any discussion anyway.

Texting style: Very demanding. Short texts. Uses a different phone each week like Child Emperor because lord knows he’s got a lot of shit to hide.

King:

Group chat: he’s not even in the group chat and he thinks it’s because nobody’s noticed, but the truth is that everyone knows it and they’re either too intimidated or don’t give enough of a shit to ask. He gets nervous every time someone mentions it in a meeting because he would rather swallow a microwave than have to talk to his coworkers any more than he already has.

Texting style: pretty normal. Lenient on grammar, uses acronyms, texts at normal intervals. His phone is full of pics of anime catpeople and he gets Discord notifications a metric-fuckton times a day from the many, many gaming servers he’s part of (nobody knows it’s him though).

Zombieman:

Group chat: lurks. He reads only the important messages and responds with one-worded texts. Usually just things to let everyone know he understands what’s going on like “got it” or, “affirmative”.

Texting style: he knows how to use his phone, but in a middle-aged suburban dad sort of way. He only ever uses it to read the news, take pictures of crime scenes or important documents, use the notepad, and text a select few people. He gets new phones often—not quite as often as Child Emperor or Metal Knight—because he’s also paranoid about it falling into the wrong hands. In addition to that, technology hates him. Siri never listens because his voice is fucky as all hell.

Drive Knight:

Group chat: He doesn’t even have a cellphone, nor is he in the group chat. He’s basically a walking computer so he’s got 0 use for a phone. And he’s not in the group chat because he specifically requested that he not be put in it on account of the fact that he doesn’t give enough of a shit about his coworkers’ internal affairs.

Texting style: Doesn’t text. Like I said, he doesn’t have a cellphone. If he wants to get a message across, he’ll communicate it over comms. Like a weirdo.

Pig God:

Group chat: Is surprisingly active? I think I’ve said this before in a previous hc, but the main three things he does all hours of the day are use the internet, eat, and do hero work (which also counts as eating). So, lo and behold, he’s got a lot of spare time to communicate with everyone over text. It’s easier for him to talk over text than it is in person, since he’s really shy. His real personality really shines through. Proud of him.

Texting style: Basically like any regular teen. Uses acronyms, sends the occasional meme, leaves people on read for hours at time because he can’t be bothered to pick up the phone, and has no care whatsoever for grammar.

Superalloy Darkshine:

Group chat: Super active. Engages in nearly every conversation and almost serves as a mediator whenever it comes to arguments. He’s really positive and doesn’t like conflict so he’ll do whatever he can to alleviate any tension between anyone in the chat in the event that it arises. If Child Emperor wasn’t moderator, it would be him. He also exchanges boomer-ass fitness memes with Tanktop Master. The two of them just kind of have their little side conversations while everyone else is talking about a completely different thing. They’re best bros.

Texting style: Like I said, he’s super positive. He’ll use emojis every other word and a LOT of exclamation points because he feels there’s not much else he can do to express his perpetual excitement about everything. He takes care of his phone relatively well considering his whole schtick is tanking damage. He might need to get it repaired every once and a while because he absolutely REFUSES to get a new one. He grows attached to objects really easily and losing something he’s had for so long would feel like losing a close friend.

Watchdog Man:

Group chat: not even in it. He can’t even text because no phone in the world can detect his fingers through the super thick pads of his suit. He doesn’t even have a phone for this reason. Why would he need one when he’s in the same place all hours of the day?

Texting style: like I said, he doesn’t even have a phone. If he did, he’d probably eat it. Not because he’s too dumb to know the difference, but because he feels that’s the only use it’ll serve to him.

Flashy Flash:

Group chat: Only reads the important messages and engages in conversation when it serves to humor him. He’s not super talkative, but when he is, he’s got a LOT to say. He usually just quarrels with Tatsumaki whenever she gets smart with someone. It’s a wonder she hasn’t killed him yet.

Texting style: Sort of formal. He texts exactly like how he talks. He goes the extra mile to use proper grammar and even thinks emojis/acronyms are frivolous. Pretty pretentious, but he gets whatever point he’s trying to communicate across quite well.

Genos:

Group chat: I can’t decide between him either being super involved in the chat or not giving a shit at all so I’m just gonna flip a coin here... Super involved! He’s got something to say on every topic and voices his opinion with no filter. Aside from that, he doesn’t really engage in conversation very much. He just sort of drops in every so often to give the take of the century and dips the fuck out.

Texting style: Basically like Flashy Flash’s style. He texts exactly like how he talks, uses near perfect grammar, and thinks emojis/acronyms are a waste of time. Occasionally, Saitama will convince him to “act like a teenager” and type “lol”, but it never sticks. You could say... he’s programmed that way. Hehe.

Metal Bat:

Group chat: Shit-talker in chief. He initiates all discourse on Amai Mask and nobody really complains since they’re all in the same Amai Mask hate club, practically. If anyone’s sending good memes, it’ll be him. He’s got no filter and voices his opinions with no fear, taking no prisoners and shit-talking everyone equally.

Texting style: Gen Z to the extreme. Uses emojis, acronyms, the whole shebang. He’s young enough to have grown up on technology so he knows how to use his phone well. The phone itself, however, is barely functioning. If it could talk it would be saying “kill me...” because Badd drops it, smashes it, and breaks it 24/7. The only thing he does to repair it is apply some scotch tape and call it a day. It looks like shit. He doesn’t want to get a new one until the one he has now is COMPLETELY broken.

Tanktop Master:

Group chat: Like I said, he and Superalloy Darkshine have their own side conversations while everyone else is on a completely different topic. They exchange boomer-ass memes about fitness and shit. Other than that, he doesn’t really participate outside of the occasional one-word text that lets everyone know he understands what’s being said.

Texting style: Dad. He texts like a dad. Not a smart dad either, like a tryhard dad that had just googled internet terminology and uses it in all the wrong ways. He doesn’t use emojis because there’s so many that he gets overwhelmed. He tries though, by god he tries.

Puri-Puri Prisoner:

Group chat: Basically a mediator like Superalloy. He doesn’t really like conflict and does his best to spread love and cheer but to no avail, since everyone else is a huge drag. He engages well in conversation and offers his input on plans. He’s a pretty active and well-rounded member.

Texting style: one problem, though. He’s not supposed to have a phone in prison. His texting style is very abbreviated and almost illegible because he has to get the message across as fast as possible before anyone notices he has a cellphone. The phone itself is old as hell and smells like ass. For obvious reasons.

[dcbbw]

Hello, I have been going through a lot lately and would like to request OTP with SGL x Riley B where Liam takes it as a challenge to make her toes curl 😏 within a 24 hour period. How many times can he send her over the edge? Thank you for all you do to bring a smile to my face and smut to my tumblr 😂😂😂

Thank you for the ask, @umccall71! Firstly, prayers and positive vibes your way that you make through your storm unscathed and much better for it. Secondly, I cannot give you full on SGL x Riley B smut because that is coming in the DC AU series. I promise!!!

I know we discussed Liv x Max replacing your original pairing, but I think I have come up with a compromise to make us both happy.

This takes place within DC AU’s COVID Universe.

HUGE thank yous to @burnsoslow, @bbrandy2002, and @ao719 for pre-reading and helping me with the sticky part! (pun not intended)

THIS ASK IS NSFW!!

It was 6:42am, but Riley’s apartment was still dark despite it being daylight savings time. It was due to a combination of no lights being cut on and the dark clouds and heavy curtain of rain pouring from the sky. DC was experiencing an early morning thunderstorm, a common occurrence during the summer when the same weather forecast was issued day after day: hazy, hot, humid with a chance for strong storms.

But it wasn’t the rain that woke Riley up; it was Liam’s hand cupping the side of her breast. She kept her eyes closed, squeezing them even more tightly shut. She had no idea what to do, even though she had been expecting this. It was a natural next step.

The pandemic shutdown had accelerated the trajectory of what Riley had planned to be a slow-going process. What was supposed to be a 2-week shutdown was now entering month three. Three months of togetherness on a level Riley still wasn’t sure she was ready for, but it was … nice.

There were kisses: light and playful, deep and sensuous.

They had established a domestic routine that included cooking, cleaning, and laundry.

Once a week, Liam and Riley went to his apartment to empty his mailbox, check the food in the fridge, and visit with Urthula. They then went to Riley’s office so she could check the mail, upload documents for telework, and make a check deposit. From there, they went to Liam’s office so he could scan documents to clients and supervisors and check his mail. Their last stop was at the grocery store, where Liam would look up recipes and videos for ingredients needed for his daily meal planning. Riley stocked up on liquor and junk food.

At some point, Liam stopped sleeping on the sofa and began sharing the bed with Riley. They were both nervous: Riley was still skittish and didn’t want to rush into anything; her nervousness no longer stemmed from Drake; it was Liam. If Liam hurt her, she wasn’t sure what she would do.

There wasn’t enough ice cream in the world to heal the hurt that would cause.

Liam’s nervousness came from a fear of giving Riley B. the wrong impression of him and of pushing her outside her comfort zone too soon. How to let her know they could be best friends and lovers? He was willing to sit back and let her lead the show.

And now, here it was. Would she continue to deny them what was natural? Or would she let go, even if just a little bit?

She recalled the night before: They had fallen asleep on their sides, Riley the little spoon to Liam’s big one. His arms were wrapped around her waist, her hands laying on top of his. Then she had to use the bathroom; then he did. She woke up to take her thyroid medication; he woke up to make sure she did. They talked a little, Liam commenting on the strong wind that had picked up. They finally fell back asleep, and now … this.

She exhaled a deep, silent breath at the feel of his hand against her there.

She wanted more.

Behind her, Liam’s eyes were closed as he held Riley B.’s breast in his palm. It felt heavy yet soft; it was driving him mad.

He wanted to see it. See her.

He hadn’t planned on feeling up his best friend at the crack of dawn; hell, he hadn’t planned on touching her in any way she was uncomfortable with, but at some point when they had fallen back asleep before the storm came in, Riley’s tank top had ridden up. Liam’s hands had gotten tangled in soft cotton; in extracting himself, he found himself cupping the side of her breast.

And now he wanted more.

But he needed to know she wanted it also.

“Riley B.?” his voice rumbled in her ear.

She moaned softly as she arched her back into his chest. “More,” she pleaded.

Liam’s eyes flew open. “Are … are you sure?” he asked cautiously.

“Yes. But no sex, Liam!”

“Whatever you want, Riley B. I just want to make you happy.”

Liam kissed her shoulder before rolling her onto her back. He angled his body over hers as he searched her eyes before his lips tentatively brushed against hers. Her tongue swiped his lower lip before he pulled it into his mouth. Their tongues tangled slowly at first; this was no ordinary kiss. The promise of more that accompanied their usual kisses was being replaced with the certainty of more. Liam’s hands impatiently pulled at the sides and hem of Riley’s sleep shirt.

A brilliant flash of lightning lit up the room as they separated so the shirt could be lifted away from her body. Her breasts lay bare before him, the heavy globes of flesh flashing golden in the brief illumination. Her nipples were a dark chocolate brown, erect and begging to be suckled.

He shimmied out of his pajama pants; his erect manhood sprang forth. Riley’s eyes grew wide; her center pooled.

She gripped Liam’s shoulders as she pulled him back down to continue the kiss.

Their first morning breath kiss. It was delicious.

Thunder rumbled in the sky as Liam’s mouth moved down Riley’s body. He kissed her jawline, her nearly invisible surgical scar. He reached her breasts. He gazed at them in awe, memorizing their details: Each breast had a prominent vein running through it. Her areolas were dotted with moles. He hefted them in his hands; one had a chicken pox scar on its underside.

His thumbs flicked across her nipples; the brush of his skin against hers elicited a low moan from Riley.

Riley watched him as the fingers of one hand fisted in Liam’s dark hair; the other slowly stroked along his very erect, very impressive length. Her hips rolled against his hand as she softly moaned between heavy breaths.

Liam’s lips were firmly attached to Riley B.’s nipple, his tongue circling, licking, and flickering across her puckered flesh. He let out a shaky breath when he released her, only to have the length of his tongue lick her breast from underside to nipple.

The wetness of his tongue against the warmth of Riley’s skin caused an eruption of goosebumps to break out across her creamy skin.

“Oh, God … Liam!” Riley moaned as her hands tugged at his locks.

His eyes lifted to take in her lust-infused features as he resumed his suckling. “Hmmm?”

One hand held her breast as the other began drifting down her curves; he reached her center. His cock throbbed as it leaked pre-cum onto vanilla scented sheets. He placed his hand between her thighs to push them apart, but she spread them for him.

Offering herself.

Liam reluctantly released her nipple; the cool of the air on the wet skin made it stiffen even more. He slid down the bed so he could see Riley B.’s most secret place. The smell of her arousal greeted him first; faint, sweet, enticing.

Once again, lightning lit the room to allow him to see her essence-dampened skin.

She shaved down there.

He spread cocoa-colored lips to reveal her pink. He bit his lip to hold back a groan as he slowly pumped two fingers in and out of her slippery entrance. His slightly opened mouth hovered over her clit, willing himself to not taste her.

His tongue swiped her from clit to entry.

“No sex! You promised no sex until we dated.” Riley’s protests were uttered in a desire-filled voice.

God, she wanted this, but she had to stick to her own boundaries, her own standards. She wanted him. He wanted her. For so long. But Riley wanted what this could be to be different; she wanted Liam to want more. More than this.

Liam’s lips released her bud and began traveling up her body. His lips pulled at the side of her neck; she smelled of sleep and yesterday’s perfume. He captured her lips, his tongue slowly rolling with hers.

His fingers still pumped within her.

“We’re not having sex; it’s a makeout session!” he corrected her.

Riley’s hand gripped Liam’s cock more firmly in her hand; her strokes sped up.

“You know exactly what you’re doing, Liam Daniel!”

Liam’s hips rocked rhythmically in Riley’s hand. “Don’t be middle-naming me, woman!”

Silence as they continued to jack and jill each other. Liam let out a moan. “Yes! Yes, Riley B. … just.like.that!”

Riley’s eyes were closed as she felt the thick meat wrapped in her fist; they opened when she felt Liam’s body pressed atop hers. “What are you doing?”

“No sex,” Liam promised. “I just want to grind against your body. Can I do that, Riley B.?” His eyes were wide with hope, dark with lust.

I want to put the tip in.

“God, yes,” Riley moaned as their hips humped and ground against each other. The bulbous head of his cock pressed against her clit; Riley’s neck arched as her head pressed deeper into her pillow. Liam pulled back to stroke himself against her length. It was wet, slippery.

She was so beautiful. He loved her so much.

A clap of thunder so loud it shook the bedroom walls exploded in the sky as Riley’s body quaked with orgasm; Liam’s body shuddered and jerked with his release.

The cries from their shared crescendo echoed throughout her apartment.

Afterwards, they lay on their backs, catching their breaths as rain continued to pound the earth. Liam washed them up, smiling at Riley B. the entire time. When he climbed back in the bed, he grabbed his phone and began tapping keys.

Riley hid her disappointment; she wasn’t sure what she was expecting. Cuddles, conversation, falling back asleep? Whatever it was, Liam getting on his phone after such an intimate experience and ignoring her wasn’t it.

Maybe if there weren’t so many layers being added to a decade-long friendship; maybe if she could just let go and trust; maybe if she just lowered her fucking expectations.

Maybe if she just stopped overthinking everything.

Riley let out a sigh as her hand fumbled over her bedside table, searching for the remote. Liam heard the clatter and looked up from his phone.

“What are you doing, Riley B.?”

“About to cut on the television,” she replied tersely.

Liam smirked, but inwardly, insecurity was running rampant.

Did I move too fast? Maybe I didn’t please her?

“I need to step my game up if all you want is television after our wake-up.”

“You wanted your phone, I want television,” Riley replied as her hands curled around the remote.

“For breakfast ideas!” Liam said, holding out his phone.

Riley reluctantly glanced at the phone screen: pictures of something called baked Sicilian eggs. Her eyes widened slightly.

“We have a routine: I do breakfast, you do dinner. I wanted to make you a special breakfast because you know … thank you,” he explained in a rushed voice.

“You were looking for … breakfast?” Riley asked in an embarrassed tone. She hung her head to hide both her embarrassment and relief.

Liam nodded. “What else? You wanna help me look?”

Riley released her hold on the remote and scooted across the bed to lay her head in the crook of Liam’s shoulder. His free arm wrapped around her as he positioned the phone between them.

“Yes, please,” she replied eagerly as Liam’s fingers stroked her hair.

Tagging: @sirbeepsalot @wannabemc2 @jared2612 @katedrakeohd @hopefulmoonobject @custaroonie @jovialyouthmusic @thequeenofcronuts @amomentofsinclairity @bobasheebaby @ao719 @sashatrr @marietrinmimi @ladyangel70 @gardeningourmet @umccall71 @angi15h @romanticatheart-posts @drakeandcamilleofvaltoria @blznbaby @tabithacarlisle @bbrandy2002 @ab1901 @janezillow @debramcg1106 @radlovedreamer @lodberg @thecordoniandiaries @ramseyandrys @caroldxnvxrs @princess-geek @burnsoslow @annekebbphotography @merridithsmiscellany-blog @queenjilian @emichelle @indiacater @loveellamae @forthebrokenheartedthings @kingliam2019 @texaskitten30 @glaimtruelovealways @zaffrenotes @bebepac @liyanin @dibberdipper @choiceslife @ac27dj @the-soot-sprite @gnatbrain @seriouslybadchoices @sanchita012 @anotherbeingsworld @atha68 @aworldoffandoms @hopelessromanticmonie @princessleac1 @amandablink @yungnayque

 #ns*w #lemons #sgl #riley b #dcbbw writes

[bard-llama]

Know Thine Enemy (Iorveth/Roche) Part 2

Summary: Iorveth spends far too much time thinking about Roche's proposition and comes to a decision.

Read on AO3 | Read Part 1 on Tumblr

If you like my writing, consider donating to my ko-fi! I am writing gift fics for all donors.

Notes: Warning that this chapter includes a bit of a dubcon/noncon fantasy for a few paragraphs. It starts near the end of the chapter with "What if...what if Roche hadn’t let him go?" and ends at "Before he could think more about that..."

Elder Speech:

Dh’oine = Elder Speech for Human

Bloede = expletive along the lines of stupid/silly/fucking i.e. Bloede Dh’oine = Fucking Human

Aindeoin = taken from the Scottish Gaelic word for spite, a dh ’aindeoin, according to Google.

--

When Iorveth awoke from his little bender, his mouth tasted like feet, his head was pounding, and attempting to open his eye just led to sharp spikes of sunlight drilling into it.

Suddenly it was very easy to remember why he usually didn’t drink these days. Aside from his responsibility to his men, of course. But it had been a long time since he’d imbibed regularly and his tolerance reflected that. In other words, it was nonexistent. And he vaguely remembered drinking a lot.

Iorveth groaned piteously, and someone cleared their throat next to him and pressed a waterskin to his mouth. He drank greedily, not even bothering to open his eye. There were two people likely to take care of him, and Imadia would have said something scathing by now. That meant that the gentle hand that stroked over his hair belonged to Ciaran. He wasn’t wearing his bandana, which likely also meant that Ciaran had put him to bed and watched over him.

“Thank you,” he rasped after Ciaran took the waterskin away.

“What happened to set you off?”

“Ah.” Iorveth flushed, remembering exactly what had set him off. Or rather, who. But he couldn’t tell Ciaran that. “I was careless, got caught in a hunter’s trap,” he said instead, shame coloring his words as he thought back on the humiliating encounter.

“Oh.” Ciaran was silent for a long moment and Iorveth squinted his eye open. His friend had his lips pressed tightly together, clearly holding back laughter.

“Ugh,” Iorveth covered his face with his hands. “If you’re going to laugh, you owe me another drink. Maybe it’ll make this headache bearable.”

“You’re in luck,” Ciaran chuckled. “Imadia left you a tonic.” He uncorked something noxious smelling and helped Iorveth struggle upright. Iorveth braced himself – knowing Imadia, the tonic would work miracles, but likely taste like death. She liked to teach him lessons by doing things like that.

He was right. Swallowing the tonic down as quickly as possible did not stop him from wishing he could claw out his tongue. But, after a few minutes had passed, he did have to admit that he felt better. Well enough to venture out of bed, anyway.

“What did I do, anyway?” Iorveth asked, not truly sure he wanted to know. If he’d actually said something incriminating about Roche, Ciaran would have already brought it up.

“You told a lot of stories about what an amazing debater you are,” Ciaran said, threads of laughter still in his voice. “Apparently it was very important that we all know that you once defeated Filavandrel.”

“And I was right,” Iorveth couldn’t help pointing out. Filavandrel may be respected as a leader of elves in Dol Blathanna, but he was equally well known for his eloquence. Defeating him was a point of personal pride.

Not that those sorts of victories mattered anymore. But it was a good memory, one that brought a smile to his face.

“When you’re ready,” Ciaran said, rolling his eyes, “Sylvar had an idea he wants to run by you.”

“Oh?”

Ciaran nodded. “I’ll let him share the details, but I think it has merit, if we plan well. Striking outside of our usual territory will throw off those damn Blue Stripes, too.” He stepped over to the door and opened it for the young elf.

“Sir,” he nodded, a smirk curling the corner of his lips. Iorveth sighed. He should have know Kythaela’s insistence on calling him sir would spread.

“Tell me about your idea.”

Sylvar eagerly stepped forward, unrolling a map over his table. “I think we should hit the supply caravan to Ellander.”

Iorveth cocked his eyebrow. Ellander lay a short distance from the western edge of the Scoia’tael’s forest. The small city was home to a Temeria army base, three taverns, two whorehouses, and the Temple of Melitele, where priestesses tended to the wounded and weary. “Their supplies come overland, from Vizima.” Which was further to the west and would require them to circle around Ellander without the cover of the forest.

“Usually, yes sir. But apparently there was a recent landslide on the road from Vizima, so they’re sending supplies by ship, across the Yaruga. That means they have to come ashore not too far from our borders. We can hit them before they ever realize there’s anything to fear.”

“Hmm,” Iorveth hummed, thinking it over. They did need new supplies badly. And this time, he hoped the army sent their men better tasting rations. “When?”

“Our spies report that the ship should arrive in three days,” Ciaran answered. “That gives us three days to plan this carefully.”

Of course, it also meant three days for someone to leak their plans. Not that Iorveth thought any of his men were traitors, but Roche had his ways of getting information. Even if no one sold them out, they would probably encounter the Blue Stripes.

That was fine. He could plan for the Blue Stripes. He just wished he could plan for Roche outside of anticipating his attacks.

––

Iorveth spent the days leading up to their raid thinking about Roche. More specifically, thinking about how to defeat Roche. Except that naturally turned into thinking about how Roche could have killed him and didn’t, and that led to thinking about the way that Roche had talked about his ears and how his body had gotten...confused. He knew it was confusion because there was no way he could be feeling interest in the dh’oine.

He just – wanted to understand Roche, that was all. It had been a long time since he’d found a worthy debate opponent and Roche showed signs of having a not-disappointing intellect. His body had just confused his interest in knowing Roche for, well, for knowing Roche.

It didn’t help that Roche had propositioned him. He never would have even thought of Roche in that context if the other hadn’t started it. But now that his brain had gone there, he started thinking about it. And thinking about it meant that he desperately, desperately wanted to go on another bender until he could stop thinking.

But he had a responsibility to the Scoia’tael and he would not fail them. Even if it meant being stuck with thoughts of what a dh’oine – what Roche – might be like in bed.

If he accepted. Which of course, he never would. Their prior encounter had clearly been a fluke, a strange event that would never be replicated. The next time the met, Roche would probably pretend the whole thing had never happened.

Except to humiliate Iorveth, if he wanted to. After all, he didn’t know that Iorveth’s body had only been confused. But Roche couldn’t possible actually want him. Roche hunted nonhumans; his proposition had clearly been a mistake.

Which was what Iorveth wanted. Of course it was. There was no part of him that felt a little pleased to be the subject of desire for someone again. Not that he was without company when he craved it, but Aen Seidhe valued beauty and his was ruined.

The most common response he’d heard after he lost his eye was, “what a shame.” Iorveth had been considered quite beautiful once, but elves valued aesthetics, and even if Iorveth’s scar weren’t horrific and grotesque, the asymmetry of it would always be considered unpleasant to the eye.

It wasn’t so bad these days, around the Scoia’tael. They were all warriors, they understood scars. They were shameful necessities of the life they fought for.

Still, there was a reason very few people ever saw Iorveth without his bandana on. Even that couldn’t cover everything, but it hid the worst of it, the parts that made faces contort in disgust before people regained control of themselves. Ciaran and Imadia were the only two he trusted enough to see the true horror he was, and even they hadn’t been able to help reacting. He didn’t blame them – he couldn’t stand to look himself in the mirror either – but it was an important reminder. No one could ever want him, not truly.

But gods, it would be nice to actually be wanted, to be someone considered worthy of wooing or courting. Not that he had time for romance, nor would he ever want it with Roche of all people. But it would be nice.

“Almost time.” Ciaran’s voice startled him and again, Iorveth cursed himself for getting lost in thought.

“Wait for my signal,” he ordered. Ciaran handed him a spyglass and Iorveth did a quick check that his people were where they were supposed to be. Then he turned to small caravan below that was slowly loading supplies from the ship. They would wait until the caravan was fully loaded – all the easier to get away with the highest quantity of supplies – and their attack strategy was two-pronged. First, they had to lure out the Blue Stripes. Roche would likely have supplemented his crew with men from Ellander’s army base, so all of Iorveth’s people were here for this operation. If they failed, it would be a massacre.

But they wouldn’t fail. Because Iorveth knew Roche would be coming, knew Roche would attack them. Which meant he’d just needed to figure out how to outmaneuver one man instead of unpredictable guards.

It would almost be fun, if it weren’t for the stakes.

Iorveth signaled Maeral to take her five man squad to attack the boat, as if the supplies hadn’t already been unloaded. Their job was the most dangerous – bait for the Blue Stripes. It was likely more than one of them wouldn’t return, but he trusted Maeral with this command, trusted her to fight with everything she had to return home. She was one of his youngest commanders, but Iorveth hadn’t managed to win a chess match against her in half a decade. She understood tactics and strategy and she looked at the whole field in a way Iorveth had never been able to.

Maeral attacked, her squad engaging the guards around the makeshift dock. It took only a few long heartbeats of waiting before Roche did the expected – surrounded Maerel’s squad and announced his presence.

Now It was Iorveth’s turn. He had thirty soldiers surrounding the Blue Stripes and each had orders to keep the fighting as contained to the makeshift dock as possible. Then, while everyone was busy, Ciaran would take over the caravan with his squad and deliver it to Aindeoin. It was a good plan, and the butterflies in Iorveth’s stomach felt more like anticipation than nerves.

Nonetheless, he could admit that he was just a little bit worried about how his first meeting with Roche would go. What if the dh’oine brought up their last meeting? Iorveth clenched his fists and took a deep breath, pulling his mind back on task.

Then he gave the signal to attack and he leapt out of the tree, landing on a soldier and riding him to the ground. He jumped towards Roche, who caught his blade at the last minute, falling to one knee from the impact.

Iorveth licked his lips, already feeling the adrenaline coursing through his veins in the way his heartbeat was thudding rapidly, the way all of his focus seemed to narrow down to Roche.

“How?” Roche demanded, “how did you know we would be lying in wait!?”

Iorveth smirked. “It’s you. Of course you’d be here.” Roche actually seemed taken aback by that. Iorveth should have used the opening to attack, but he felt like gloating. “Expected me to underestimate you?”

Roche’s mouth slowly twisted into a grin. “I should have known better.” He pushed forward off of his knee, thrusting his sword towards Iorveth’s face.

It was easy enough to bat the blade aside, and now they were truly fighting and Iorveth’s grin was probably just as feral as Roche’s.

“Guess those pointy ears are sharper than I thought,” Roche said and Iorveth almost stumbled on his next step. “And here I thought we’d managed to get intel past you.”

Nearby, Sylvar cut down his opponent and rounded on Roche. “You dare speak to our leader in such vulgar terms!?”

Iorveth could feel his ears growing hot as he flushed. Oh gods, could this get any worse?

Roche’s second in command, Ves, dove to intercept Sylvar while Roche just looked baffled.

“I didn’t even use a good insult,” he frowned, and the weight of his sword against Iorveth’s own shifted. Iorveth was ready to block, but Roche just seemed to be adjusting his grip. Iorveth’s men closed in around them, pushing the Blue Stripes back, away from where Ciaran was already making off with their haul.

Roche didn’t seem to recognize that, though, instead looking at Iorveth through narrowed eyes. “Didn’t know your ears could turn that red,” he said casually, as if such a statement weren’t wildly out of place on a battlefield.

Iorveth made a small noise, eyes wide and something unfamiliar coiling in his gut. Horror and humiliation, certainly, but there was also a part of him that was pleased that Roche apparently intended his proposition, that Roche wanted him.

All the elves in earshot let out near-simultaneous scandalized gasps that almost got them killed and Iorveth could feel his face flushing bright red. This was a disaster that he had not signed up to deal with today.

And even though his men had the advantage, even though they’d pushed the Blue Stripes back, nearly cornered them, Iorveth found himself giving the signal to fall back. He wasn’t running away – it was simply strategic to call for a retreat at this point.

The last thing he heard before he left the battlefield behind was Roche grumbling about pointy ears and confusing strategies.

Despite leaving the battle earlier than planned, they had managed to keep the Blue Stripes distracted for long enough for Ciaran and the caravan to make it into the forest.

Thank the gods for that, because Iorveth never would have forgiven himself otherwise. Though, he wasn’t sure it mattered whether he forgave himself, because he was already contemplating burying himself in the forest somewhere to never be seen again.

“The nerve of that whoreson!” Sylvar ranted far too loudly, exposing Iorveth’s humiliation to even more elves.

Rinn, his favorite little spy, smacked Sylvar over the head and held a finger up to her lips.

“She’s telling you to shut up,” Kythaela pointed out helpfully.

Actually, if Rinn chose to spoke, it would probably be a lot more impolite than that. But Iorveth was the only one she felt comfortable enough to speak around, except for Imadia on rare occasion.

Still, she was right. The last thing he wanted was for word to spread about Roche’s crude words. Iorveth could feel himself blushing just at the thought.

Sylvar grumbled the rest of the way back to Aindeoin, but he didn’t immediately start shouting about Iorveth’s humiliation, so that was something.

“Let’s get a drink,” Kythaela slipped her arm through Sylvar’s and bodily dragged him away. Iorveth smiled at the apologetic look she sent him and followed behind at a more sedate pace.  

A short time later, as his Scoia’tael sat around the campfires – built in special stone pits to prevent the trees from catching alight – feasting and drinking, Iorveth found himself strangely unable to adjust to the mood. They had plentiful supplies now and had achieved a victory against the Blue Stripes with minimal losses. He should be as lighthearted and jovial as his brethren who chattered and laughed around him. But he couldn’t stop thinking about earlier’s humiliation, about the way he’d been propositioned in front of his men and the way he’d visibly reacted, bright red for anyone to see.

Instead of drowning himself in drink the way he had a few days before, Iorveth found himself slowly sipping wine as he stood on the outskirts of the feast, leaning against the tree trunk their dining hall was built into. He spotted Rinn sitting on a branch above the feast and smiled to himself. She always did prefer her own company over that of others.

He had been the one to find her, all those years ago. Iorveth had killed a group of dh’oine standing over the bodies of elves and only after the fact had he realized that one of the elves still lived.

Rinn had been completely mute at that point. She was strong willed and bounced back from tragedy fairly quickly, but her speech had not returned for years. And even now, she preferred silence, though he wasn’t sure how much of that was trouble speaking versus not wanting to bother. He wouldn’t be entirely surprised if it was the latter, but then, he sometimes wished he could avoid speaking.

Rinn noticed him watching and waved at him. Then, even though he was staring right at her, he wasn’t quite sure how she managed to disappear. It was a special talent of hers, to go unnoticed.

Originally, he hadn’t wanted her to join the Scoia’tael. She had been young when he found her, about a decade under the age of majority for an elf, and while Iorveth had trouble understanding how some people could choose not to fight, he did believe that their people deserved to grow up in peace. So he’d sent her to Vergen, the Dwarven city in Upper Aedirn where they sent all refugees who came to the Scoia’tael for help. It wasn’t a paradise, and dwarves and elves had longstanding differences, but it was still a better city than one run by humans.

Rinn had gone to Vergen. He’d sent her multiple times, in fact. But somehow, she kept popping back up in Aindeoin and Iorveth had never been able to figure out how. After the fourth time, he’d decided that if she was determined to be here, he would put those skills to use.

Of course, with her not speaking to anyone – including him, at the time, as she had still been learning hand signs, though she managed to get her will across quite well without using words at all – they’d had to get inventive on how she could communicate the intel that she picked up hanging around where no sensible person would.

He still didn’t know how she’d gotten inside Ellander’s army barracks, and admittedly, he didn’t know what he would do with the detailed sketch of the Blue Stripes’ cots, but hey, intel was intel. And there were times that a picture of the situation was much more useful than a verbal report. Such as when you realized that your enemies weren’t just comrades, but family.

It was in the way Rinn drew them sitting around the campfire together or sleeping in a huddle in the cold, never aware of their silent observer determinedly putting their likeness to paper. The Blue Stripes were so clearly more than just people who fought side by side. They cared about each other.

A realization like that one was valuable. It meant that the team had a weakness that could be exploited. If they cared about each other, then they could be used as leverage against each other.

Only Iorveth had immediately known it wouldn’t work. Because he knew Roche, even if he didn’t know the dh’oine, and Roche was like him. Roche was a man who would do what he had to, even if it destroyed him.

If Iorveth had shared what he’d seen in Rinn’s drawings with Ciaran, his second in command would want them to kidnap one of the commandos, to use them as a hostage.

But Roche would not let himself be controlled like that. If Iorveth tried, Roche would shoot him through his dh’oine comrade if he had to. Because Roche wasn’t a good man, just like Iorveth wasn’t. Both of them would sacrifice everything for their cause. It was just a shame their two causes were opposed.

So Iorveth had filed Rinn’s sketches of the Blue Stripes away without ever sharing what he’d seen. It wasn’t a realization anyone else was likely to make. Aside from Rinn and a few other choice spies, Iorveth’s men only ever saw the Blue Stripes in the midst of battle. And while the Blue Stripes watched each other’s backs, they were professionals.

But Iorveth had spies for a reason. It was his job to learn everything he could about his enemies. It was also his job to use that intel, but the truth was, he was scared of what might happen if he did. He didn’t want his fight with Roche to turn into a fight of whose morals could sink lower.

Iorveth was scared because he knew he would do it. When backed into a corner, there was very little he wouldn’t do for the Scoia’tael, for the cause of a free elven state. He wasn’t sure there was a limit to the depths he would sink to. He already knew that he would sacrifice his people if he had to – that’s what it meant to order his men to play bait – and he had once believed that he would never kill another elf.

Iorveth laughed bitterly to himself. Once upon a time, he’d genuinely thought he’d never resort to violence.

How the mighty have fallen, those he once knew might have said. But he was still alive while they lay dead, their ideals small defense in the face of human hatred, so he rather thought his position spoke for itself.

That was how most recruits came to the Scoia’tael – because someone they knew had finally been beaten beyond what they could take, and they were tired and scared of the dh’oine mobs that came with their pitchforks and swords and left the land running red with blood.

Iorveth glanced around the dining hall, noting the scars and injuries on his comrades, all caused by dh’oine. There wasn’t a Scoia’tael without a scar, wasn’t a one of them who hadn’t been damaged by the dh’oine and their hatred.

Some more so than others. That had been how he’d first heard of Sylvar – the entire camp had been gossiping about how someone actually had worse scars than Iorveth. Not to his face, of course. But near enough that Iorveth had easily heard.

Few elves had even seen how bad his scars truly were, but Iorveth had to admit that they were still right – Sylvar’s were worse. There was scarcely any skin that wasn’t distorted from the burn scars that covered most of his body.

Dh’oine had been responsible, of course. Sylvar and his mother had lived peacefully in Ellander, more or less avoiding trouble with dh’oine. Until the day a mob broke into their house, beat Sylvar half to death, and burned the building to the ground.

Sylvar had been lucky. He’d escaped. Barely.

His mother hadn’t been so fortunate. But then, Iorveth reflected, most of the younger elves had joined the Scoia’tael because they wanted vengeance against the dh’oine who had killed their parents.

Or used them. Taredd’s parents had been better off living under human rule than most. As affluent traders, money opened what doors their race barred. But dh’oine greed was a constant, and eventually, they decided they didn’t want elves to be prosperous. And if they got rid of the elves, well, then there was all that coin, just for the taking.

Iorveth always thought his hatred of humanity couldn’t get any deeper, but every time a new child – because they were children, not yet even a century of life! – joined the Scoia’tael, it burned that much brighter.

He tried to remind himself that there were good dh’oine out there. Supposedly.

The problem was, the only example he could think of was Vernon Roche, and he could hardly be called good when he had so much blood on his hands.

But then, so did Iorveth.

Perhaps that was why he wished he could have a conversation with Roche. They were, in many ways, very similar, and yet so very, very different. Such contrast practically guaranteed an interesting debate.

If it were possible to just – not set aside, because the racism elves faced could never just be set aside, but if they could meet without trying to kill each other. To just talk. Well, probably fight, but verbal fighting, the kind Iorveth used to have mastered, the kind that had once been the only kind of fighting he’d done.

That had been a long time ago now.

He didn’t regret doing what he had to. But he was just so tired. Iorveth wished there were somewhere he could go where he could leave the fighting at the door. Somewhere where he could talk to Roche and receive an answer rather than an attack.

Except Roche hadn’t attacked him that day in the forest. The dh’oine had threatened him, certainly, but even after Iorveth had been released, Roche had made no move towards his sword. Iorveth himself had been the one to attack, even if it had been a pathetic attempt. His embarrassment had been too overwhelming at the time, but now, now he wondered if Roche choosing not to attack was as much of an offer as his crass remarks.

Maybe...maybe it would be worth taking him up on it? Just for a conversation, not for sex. Iorveth had no interest in sex with a dh’oine.

So why had being helpless in Roche’s grasp made him hot and squirmy that day in the forest? Why had his ears flushed so red and why had his cock reacted when Roche had dragged his dagger ever so delicately over his throat?

Iorveth shivered and cleared his throat. He really shouldn’t be thinking about the way his confused body had reacted. Was reacting.

He shifted uncomfortably, dearly grateful that his gambeson and mail hid the exact way his body was reacting. His body was obviously still confused, because there was nothing that he should find appealing about being helpless under Roche’s blade.

Iorveth swallowed and bit his lip. Perhaps he should take this line of thinking somewhere more private, just in case his body continued to get the wrong idea.

Or, part of his mind whispered, he could stay here. There was no need to draw attention to himself by leaving early and that little curl of humiliation in his belly at the idea that someone could find out made him shift and clench around nothing. It was uncomfortably good, the way the shame and lust and general confusion Roche inspired fizzled together in his stomach and made him sensitive.

Iorveth focused on breathing evenly even as every shift of his weight and every squeeze of his thighs sent shivers of pleasure through his body. His hose was soaked with wetness from his cunt and Iorveth bit his lip, feeling his cock twitch at the twinge of pain.

What would sex with a dh’oine like Roche even be like? Iorveth couldn’t see it being gentle, but he liked a little bit of roughness himself. And thinking back on their encounter in the woods when Iorveth had been caught – Roche had been pretty good at taking charge, too. Iorveth hadn’t been aware that he was interested in that, but something about Roche standing over him, holding Iorveth’s own knife to his throat…

Iorveth shuddered, then cleared his throat and looked around wildly to make sure no one noticed.

What if...what if Roche hadn’t let him go? What if the Blue Stripes commander had kept that knife pressed against the hollow of Iorveth’s collarbone? Iorveth licked his lips, imagining what might have happened if Vernon Roche were an entirely different kind of man. The kind of man who would force Iorveth’s mouth open and slide his cock inside.

What would he taste like? Humans were warmer than elves in general, and their cocks looked so strange in comparison. What would it feel like on his tongue? In the back of his throat? Inside him?

Before it could escape his lips, Iorveth swallowed the saliva pooling in his mouth just from the thought of being filled with a cock and chased it down with a gulp of wine for good measure.

Roche could have done anything to him with Iorveth tied up and hanging like that, and Iorveth found himself wishing that Roche had, that he’d cupped Iorveth through his hose, maybe ripped it open to slip fingers inside his cunt while Iorveth sucked desperately. The smell of Roche would overwhelm him like that and for the first time, Iorveth wanted that, wanted a dh’oine’s scent to cover him.

Before he could think more about that, Ciaran broke away from a group of young elves and approached him. Iorveth hastily swallowed more wine, trying to pull himself together.

“Iorveth,” Ciaran called, reaching out to clap Iorveth on the shoulder. There was no part of Iorveth that wondered how differently Roche’s hand would feel. “Are you okay? Sylvar mentioned that that bloede dh’oine was crude and vile, as dh’oine so often are.”

Iorveth barely noticed the disgust pulling at Ciaran’s face, instead thinking about exactly how crude and vile Roche had been, talking about his ears in front of his men. Roche had seemed quite fixated on his ears, actually, and he wondered what the dh’oine’s rough hands would feel like against him. What would it feel like to have the dh’oine hot and solid on his tongue while Roche stroked his ears? Gods, Iorveth wouldn’t even need to be touched further; he could come just like that.

He was coming just like that, Iorveth realized with a stifled gasp, biting down hard on his tongue to hold back any noises and focusing all his being on not showing it. As he utterly ruined his hose, Iorveth was forced to lean his weight into the tree behind him lest his trembling legs collapse under him.

It shouldn’t have felt as good as it did.

Ciaran frowned at him. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to embarrass you. I just wanted to check and make sure you were okay. The dh’oine didn’t try anything, did he?”

It took all of Iorveth’s concentration to form words. “No,” he rasped. More’s the pity.

Gods, his face and ears must be terribly red from the way Ciaran was looking at him and a curl of shame twisted through his pleasure. Instead of detracting from the his enjoyment, it made the sensation more, and Iorveth could feel the way his shoulders loosened, the slight headache that he hadn’t even noticed dissipating.

“Good,” Ciaran said. “And I’m sorry that happened. I hope you know it’s not a reflection on you – we all know dh’oine are horny for anything that moves.”

“Mmm,” Iorveth managed a small reassuring smile and Ciaran seemed to accept it, raising his glass in a quick salute and then heading back into the thick of the festivities.

Iorveth chewed on Ciaran’s comment for a moment, wondering why it bothered him. It was true, dh’oine would fuck literally anything.

But Roche didn’t want anything. He’d propositioned Iorveth. Roche hadn’t commented on anyone else’s ears or dragged a knife slowly down anyone else’s throat or – well, really, Roche hadn’t paid much attention to anyone else at all, had he?

Iorveth bit his lip as something warm swelled in his chest. Maybe...maybe he should accept Roche’s offer.

What was the worst that could happen?

Coda: Iorveth and the Dragon

Here, Rinn signed as she stepped into Iorveth’s office. She dropped a sketch on his desk, but unlike her usual reports, this scene was clearly not from reality. In fact, it appeared to be–

“A dragon?” A smile pulled at Iorveth’s lips. Unlike dh’oine, elves saw dragons as the beautiful creatures they were. There had never been elven dragon hunters.

It’s you, Rinn grinned. See, he’s wearing your bandana!

Indeed, the detailed charcoal dragon did appear to be wearing a bandana. Looking closer, Iorveth could even see the edge of a scar going down the dragon’s snout. The dragon’s wings were spread in a silhouette that reminded Iorveth of his compound bow.

“It’s amazing,” Iorveth whispered, eyes roving across the sketch to take in all the details. “Why a dragon?”

Rinn shrugged. Dragons are cool.

Well, he couldn’t argue with that.

“Thank you,” he smiled widely at her. “I will treasure it.”

Rinn beamed at him before turning and jumping out the window. Considering his office was the highest point in Aindeoin, the way she easily jumped from branch to branch until vanishing from sight was quite impressive.

But not as impressive as Dragon Iorveth. He wondered if he could get it framed.

––

Years later, after Iorveth discovered Saskia’s true form, he showed her the picture Rinn had drawn him. She was impressed by how detailed the dragon was and praised Rinn’s skill.

That had been the moment Iorveth had decided to follow her.

[karriezai]

Oh yay! Despite dropping off the face of tumblr again for a while (oops), @gardenofstories tagged me for a fun writeblr game - thank you! I’m finding down, eyes, help, and run in my writing. I decided to grab them all from the most recent complete draft of my main WIP, Wakefire. (I haven’t gotten far in the next revision yet, at all, it’s terrible, yikes.)

I’m not going to tag anyone in particular for this, but if you see it, and you feel like participating, I’ve got four words for you! And please, tag me if you use them because I’d love to read some snippets of your work!

Your words, should you choose to accept them: bitter, swallow(ed), vibrant, indignant

Mine will be under the cut since I’m incapable of choosing small snippets apparently? Apologies in advance lol.

Okay, it turns out I use “down” in nearly every single chapter of this draft, yikes. Here’s the snippet I (semi-randomly) chose.

“I am Special Agent Corvin Viralt, Esharian Intelligence Bureau. And you are Nariska Pitral. Vaistraka.” He hummed a low tone, pulling something from his pocket. When he passed his hand across the tabletop, he left behind partially crushed bone fragments, some of them still recognizably threaded into the familiar latticework of an Ivory implant.

Risky glanced at her wrists. They were completely smooth and unblemished, all traces of her fake implants gone.

“Cow bone! Quite clever,” Viralt said, what looked like genuine amusement in his smile. “Our records showed you as Ivory, not Vaistraka.”

Gods. Leaks were to be expected, but he spoke as if he knew everything about her. How was he getting his information? But that could be a ruse; it wouldn’t be hard to deduce why she would wear fake implants.

“Not talkative, either. That’s alright; I’ll talk first.” He smiled, then hesitated, as if he’d had a sudden thought. “Would you like some water?”

Swallowing felt like trying to choke down dust. Stubbornness made Risky want to refuse, but training told her to accept. “Yes, please.”

For eyes:

“What were you thinking last night?” Ror asked. Exhaustion had settled into his bones and made his eyes feel dry and tired, leaving no room for frustration or anxiety.

Khatien crossed his arms over his chest and signed tightly with one hand that he tucked back under the opposite elbow the moment he’d finished. “I wanted to see if I could find the other Augs.”

“It could have gone a lot worse than it did. They could have hurt you. Or you could have hurt them, and Risky would have had to do more than put guards at your door.”

Khatien’s expression turned hard. He didn’t reply.

“You could have been shot,” Ror added, discomfort swimming in his gut.

Something broke; Khatien’s posture sagged and fear flashed across his face. “I knew I was taking a dumb risk,” he admitted, “but I didn’t think it might get me killed. You guys need me. I thought you wouldn’t let me get hurt.”

And help:

Yuri moved from the back window to the side opposite Seris and Ror. “The squad car’s behind us, but not gaining fast.” He tapped his fingers against his thigh, then turned toward Risky with the same look in his eyes he got when they sparred Ivory versus Vaistraka power. “You’re not gonna like this.”

Risky shot a glance his way before returning her attention to the gridway. “Let’s hear it.”

Yuri gestured to the rest of them. “Clip yourselves into the harnesses. This could get rough.” Then, as he worked on flipping the seat folded behind Risky into manual driving configuration, “Let the squad car catch up a little. We’ll need him close enough that it’s hard for him to react quickly.”

She nodded and shifted her weight according to light taps from Yuri as he got her seat set up, guided her into it, and hooked her harness over her chest and hips. Once she was settled, Yuri chose a seat and buckled in as well. “They didn’t stop oncoming traffic, and the ramps on the other side of the gridway aren’t blocked,” he said. “If you time it well…”

Risky glanced over her shoulder at him, wide-eyed, but then her eyes narrowed and she focused on the controls. “Fuck you, you crazy asshole,” she growled with an undertone of appreciation in her voice.

“Try not to kill us all,” Yuri said cheerfully.

Risky breathed a chorus of shit shit shit under her breath, then commanded, “Brace yourselves!” and the car jerked to the side and arced across oncoming traffic, turned until they were going almost completely the opposite direction—

And then they were flying down an off ramp, the car tilted dangerously to one side as they veered over the edge. Ror held his breath and leaned the opposite way, as if that would help, but they were all doing it—tendons standing out in tensed hands and arms pressed against the chair sides.

Phew, that one was long. It felt like the right length to encapsulate the moment while still making it to the use of ‘help’ though, lol. 

Lastly, run:

The slow exchange of stories, interrupted occasionally by pointing out nearby animal activity or focusing on working their way up harsher terrain, carried them to lunch. They transitioned from the neuro-comm conversation to signing like normal, and then Seris joined in with her own story about Ror accidentally walking in on her after a shower when she’d been dating Feo. Having to interpret that for her was a particular embarrassment that made his cheeks burn, but it was all in good humor.

“You’re exaggerating,” Risky accused Seris. “Did he really run into the door?”

Seris’ laughter was a bubbly, infectious thing, especially when she got carried away and let out a small snort. She couldn’t seem to fight any words out, so she just nodded.

“I was just trying to get the hell out of there,” Ror said, putting more defensiveness in his voice than he really felt. It had been humiliating when it happened, but time helped dull the embarrassment.

“How did someone so clumsy get into the SIA?” Khatien teased.

[13eyond13]

Comparing Manga!Near to Anime!Near

Sure! I actually found Near’s character very wooden and boring the first time I watched the anime, and then was very pleasantly surprised at how interesting and full of personality he seemed when I read the manga later, so I think comparing Near’s character in both sources is a great idea. I’ll outline the major differences I found between them below.

(This post is using the official English translation of the manga and the English subtitles from Netflix for the screenshots, by the way):

1. MELLO AND NEAR’S PERSONALITIES AND MOTIVES ARE DIMINISHED IN THE ANIME’S VERSION OF THE WAMMY’S CHILDHOOD FLASHBACK:

This is a scene that was changed slightly in the anime, and at great detriment to both Mello and Near’s characters and the audience's immediate understanding of them, I think. When we are first introduced to these two in the manga it shows a few panels of Mello being a bully at Wammy’s who gets right into the center of the action, and Near being a loner who is invited to participate but prefers to do puzzles by himself:

The anime begins directly at their meeting with Roger in the office, so we know nothing about how these two normally behave at the orphanage or how their peers perceive them / interact with them:

When asked to work together Mello refuses and explains to Roger that he and Near have always been at odds. The manga shows a flashback to Mello studying very hard to surpass Near's scores and always failing to do so, which sets up his inferiority complex and his strong work ethic. It also shows Near being surrounded by admiring students, which indicates he was probably well-liked despite being a loner, and shows that he’s very competent, the most successful student in the school:

 The anime simply has Mello say that they've always been at odds and competing with each other. Mello describes himself as overly emotional and Near as logical and cool-headed, and then they just leave it at that.

It isn’t until much later in the anime -- after the kidnapping, when Light finally finds out about Wammy’s -- that the difference in Near’s and Mello’s academic ranking is even mentioned at all:

I think the manga gives a much better sense of the successors’ personalities and motives right away than the anime does. All we see in the anime is that Near seemingly doesn't give a shit about L's death, nor care much about how the successor choice is made, and that Mello is temperamental and thinks that since Near’s unemotional he will be able to better solve the Kira case. I remember finding Near extremely cold and wooden the first time I watched it, because his reaction to L’s death is so callous, and none of that other stuff about him was shown or explained.

2. THE SPY IN THE SPK IS TAKEN OUT OF THE ANIME STORYLINE:

In the manga once the NPA Director is kidnapped by the mafia Near starts to suspect there is a mole in the SPK who would've leaked their plans to the kidnappers (which there is, Ill Ratte):

In the anime Ratte's role as the spy was cut out of the storyline altogether, so Near just immediately figures it out and then orders his FBI agent to cooperate with Soichiro:

I’m guessing they cut that spy bit out of the anime due to time constraints, but Near being betrayed by one of his employees and being shrewd enough to suspect it adds an extra little layer of vulnerability and sympathy to his character beyond just “smart, blase guy who never loses his cool.”

3. NEAR NO LONGER SUCKS AT DARTS IN THE ANIME:

The scene of Near and Light first talking on the phone and Near calling Light “L number two” is basically the same between the two sources:

Except that in the manga Near is shown to absolutely suck at darts, lol:

In the anime Near is just sitting there building a basic tower out of dice:

Little detail changes like this might not seem that consequential, but I'd argue they make all the difference; sucking at darts adds an endearing aspect to Near beyond just “humourless successor of L who sits around playing with toys a lot.”

I love it because it seems like exactly the opposite of what you'd expect them to show in order to get the audience on his side and believing he's L's super-competent successor, you know? It made me laugh and feel affectionate toward him in the manga, because he looks so dang serious about it; plus I love that he sticks with it for so long despite clearly not being very good!

*(side note: Tumblr’s image uploader glitched out at this point, so unfortunately the rest of the post won’t have any visuals, apologies:)*

4. THERE IS NO “WAS HE EATING CHOCOLATE?” SCENE IN THE ANIME:

Near never detains Sayu and Soichiro after the kidnapping to interrogate them in the anime, so sadly we don’t get that hilarious little manga moment where he deduces it was Mello behind the kidnapping because of the sound of him eating chocolate over the phone. 

5. NEAR’S RESPONSE TO THE SPK DEATH SEEMS LESS EMOTIONAL IN THE ANIME:

His reaction to most of the SPK getting murdered is different in anime, and I would argue he comes off much less sorrowful or shaken by the deaths. He seems pretty matter-of-fact about it, and almost like he'd predicted and planned for it to happen that way. The main emotional reaction we see is his dice tower falling and his face looking intense/angry. 

In the manga Near is caught off-guard by the deaths; he laments that he didn’t find the spy in the SPK before it was too late, and then he says to Light: “I was somewhat prepared for this the moment YOU gave the notebook away to the kidnappers, but it sure does hurt.” He is shown looking very sad about it. Light asks Near to share information, and Near has to deliberate for a while internally about whether he wants to trust Light with any information about Mello or himself before he agrees.

In the anime Near calmly predicts the deaths right before they happen, then tells Light that they died, then says: “L, you helplessly handed over the notebook.” Light asks him if he would have done anything differently if he was in charge, and Near says: “No, with that kind of preparation it would’ve been taken either way. There’s no point in us arguing. Let’s help each other and tell each other what we know. I have some idea of who the culprit may be.” MUCH LESS EMOTIONAL, and a bit overly willing to immediately volunteer information about Wammy’s and Mello to Light.

6. NEAR COMFORTING AND INFORMING THE SPK ABOUT MELLO AFTER THEY ARE DISBANDED BY THE GOV’T IS CUT OUT OF THE ANIME:

In the manga Near spends a good deal of time explaining Mello’s thought process to his team and warning them about his dangerousness before they ever meet up with him. He tells Halle in particular to watch out, because he believes Mello will target her home because she’s the most vulnerable, and then says to whole group: 

“If you’re scared, you don’t have to participate. But please don’t leave the headquarters. I’m scared, so I’m not going to go outside.” 

This display of thoughtful consideration for his team’s feelings and safety and his honesty about his own fears is not shown at all in the anime, as it skips directly from the news of the SPK being dissolved to Mello breaking into Halle’s apartment and taking her hostage to the SPK HQ.

7.  NEAR SEEMS A LITTLE MORE EXCITED BY MELLO’S ARRIVAL IN THE MANGA THAN HE DOES THE ANIME:

And there was a more in-depth explanation given in the manga about why he continued to defend Mello and sympathize with him. But even so, I would say these scenes are for the most part very similar between the two sources. The anime did a great job adding some lovely stained-glass visuals behind the boys and such here, too!

8. THERE IS NO SCENE OF NEAR AND MELLO WORKING TOGETHER TO QUESTION MOGI IN THE ANIME:

This is a real shame, because it’s basically the most fun interaction these two have and the closest they get to collaborating in a personal way after their dramatic reunion at the HQ (even though it could also be seen as Mello just attempting to taunt/use Near, but Near doesn’t seem to take it that way). Near’s interactions with Mogi and Mello are weirdly cute in this scene, as he often compliments them on their impressiveness and such, so it’s too bad that the anime chopped it out!

9. THE ANIME PUTS A MORE POSITIVE SPIN ON NEAR AND MELLO’S COLLABORATION AGAINST KIRA:

It’s left very ambiguous in the story if Mello was trying to save Near or beat him by kidnapping Takada. The manga takes a typically unsentimental view of Mello’s intentions, and the anime takes a more hopeful view of them.

In the the manga, Near says this: “I find it hard to believe that Mello thought that far ahead. But I am sure that he was always trying to get ahead of me. And that’s not all. Even if he didn’t surpass me, Mello always said that he was going to be number one, and that he was going to be better than me and L. But I always knew I would never be able to surpass L. It could be that I lacked the action and he lacked the calm; and even though we couldn’t surpass the one we admired on our own, together we can stand with L. Together we can surpass L.”

In the anime, Near says this: “I believe Mello knew in his heart that alone we aren’t able to reach our goal, to surpass L. But together... together we can stand with L. Together we can surpass L!”

10. NEAR’S PHILOSOPHICAL SPEECH IN THE WAREHOUSE IS CUT OUT OF THE ANIME:

It’s probably my favourite thing he says in the entire manga, so that’s too bad! He says it in response to Light’s passionate Kira monologue.

In the manga, after Near shuts Light down, Light says: “Near, you're wrong. I'm the icon of justice now.”

Near replies: “You may be right. I'm no different than you. I believe in what I think is right, and believe that to be righteous. Nobody can tell what is right and what is wrong, what is righteous and what is evil. Even if there is a god, and I had his teachings before me, I would think it through and decide if that was right or wrong myself.”

I loved getting these little deeper thoughts from Near in the manga; it made him come off less cold and uncaring and more human and insightful to me.

11. NEAR HAS A PLAN TO LOCK LIGHT UP FOR LIFE IN THE MANGA THAT ISN’T MENTIONED IN THE ANIME:

When Light tries to stall for time by attempting to tempt Near into testing the Death Note, in the manga Near replies:

“Light Yagami. Kira. I have no plans to kill you. I really don't care if the notebook is real or not anymore. From the very beginning, my goal was to capture Kira. All I want is for everything to become clear and for Kira to be captured. You're as good as arrested now, and I'll confiscate the notebook Mr. Aizawa has. That should be enough. And I will not announce Kira's arrest or the existence of the notebook to the public. I believe that everybody here can keep that secret. I'll take full responsibility for locking you up in a place where nobody will find you until you die."

I find this both refreshing and scary, because it shows Near’s definitely not doing this for his own glory or his ego (like Mello and L might), but it’s also a very ruthless and scary side of Near that adds a lot of spice to his character! I can’t imagine much of a worse fate for Light than that had Ryuk not gotten to him first, yikes.

12. THE EPILOGUE CHAPTER IS LEFT OUT OF THE ANIME:

In which Matsuda and Ide speculate about Near possibly “cheating” with the Death Note (aka being behind Mikami messing up with checking for tampering and dying in prison ten days later and such). Near is shown doing well as the new L, playing with toys and eating some of Mello’s trademark chocolate and collaborating with the NPA on their new work. Which is nice!

So in conclusion to this massive post, I would say that most of the characters in the second half of the story kinda got shafted by the anime because of how the plot was condensed; it didn’t help that the animation portrayed the subtler characters like Near in a less dynamic/expressive way than the original manga art did, either. Despite what it may sound like, I do love the anime a heck of a lot, but I think people will probably miss out on a lot of Near’s charm if they never get to experience the original manga version of him, as well!

[annes-andromeda]

Fluffers Speaks

Part two of my Jonerys rant cause I’m bored and have a lot of thoughts. Bear with me, cause I get sidetracked at some points. And prepare yourselves cause this is long and I get pissed.

—————————————————————

So in my last post, I talked about the problems with Jonerys in Season 7. Now we go onto Season 8. And we all know how much of a train reck that was.

In Season 8, Jonerys seems to take a toll for the worst and turns from a relationship void of chemistry or logic to Jaime and Cersei 2.0. Or more controversially, Aerys and Rhaella 2.0. I’ll get to that later.

When the Season starts, the ship seems to be having problems already (I know, shocker). As soon as Daenerys arrives to Winterfell, the Northerners do not take a liking to her. I’ve heard Dany stans on Tumblr and Instagram say that the Northerners are Xenophobic, racist, and other foul names.

Now what do xenophobia and racism mean? Simple:

Xenophobia: dislike of or prejudice against people from other countries

Racism: prejudice, discrimination, or antagonism directed against someone of a different race based on the belief that one’s own race is superior.

When in the entire season did we see the Northerners say they didn’t like the Unsullied or Dothraki because of the color of their skin? Never. When have they said they don’t like the Unsullied or Dothraki because of where they come from? Never. The Northerners have good reason not to like them. The Unsullied are mindless soldiers who take orders without question, and the Dothraki pillage, rape, and murder for sport.

But back to Jonerys. Daenerys doesn’t seem to give the Northerners a good reason to trust her. She openly says that her dragons eat “Whatever they like”, which I guarantee makes the Northerners not trust her even more. And not to mention, the Northerners haven’t forgotten what her father did to Brandon and Rickard Stark. The North Remembers.

I’ve heard Stans say that the Northerners should be grateful for Daenerys coming North to help them. I disagree.

What are two of Dany’s titles again?

Queen of the Andals and the First Men

AND

PROTECTOR OF THE REALM

It is her job. If she proclaims herself as the “Rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms”, then it is her duty to resolve any threat that should come to her self proclaimed “people”. It’s like in real life: don’t expect people to be grateful to you every time you do something nice for them. Especially when you’re just doing your job.

Not only that, but Daenerys openly threatens Sansa twice. Once with the “Whatever they like” line about her dragons, and the other to Jon’s face when she says “If she can’t respect me-“. Jon doesn’t even confront her about it, he just lets his slide.

If he loves his family so much, why doesn’t he defend them? Cause this isn’t the Jon Snow we know and love. This is Jon “you are my queen” Snow who is just Dany’s lap dog and a mouthpiece for stans.

Cut to episode four, where the Long Night is over and the Northerners are celebrating. Daenerys visits Jon in his room (without knocking might I add. Manners, Daenerys, manners) and asks “Are you drunk?”. Jon stumbles on his own two feet, clearly indicating that he’s drunk. After talking about Jorah and Daenerys saying that she couldn’t love him the way she loves Jon, they make out.

Why did she have to make out with him while he was drunk? It just bothered me cause Jon couldn’t refuse cause of all the alcohol. Thankfully, Jon spares me another terrible boatsex scene and remembers “Oh yeah, she’s my aunt and incest is gross”.

Daenerys then confessed that she didn’t enjoy the way people looked at Jon with such love and admiration because she never had that in the North (similarly to how Viserys was jealous of Daenerys when she got the love and praise of the Dothraki). When Jon says he doesn’t want it (another line he repeats throughout the series), she literally shouts:

“It doesn’t matter what you want!”

What a great girlfriend, am I right? Putting her own needs over her lovers and not giving a damn about his feelings. True love😒

But seriously, this whole scene just made me hate this ship even more. Daenerys outright says that her and Jon can only be together if he lies to his family and swears Bran and Sam to secrecy. She literally begs him and even fake cries to him. I know it’s fake crying, cause as soon as Jon says that he’s still gonna tell his family, Daenerys drops the pity tears and gets angry at him.

Even when he kneels in front of her and she grabs his face forcefully, it just shows the power imbalance between them. Daenerys is always above Jon, and Jon is always below Daenerys. Jaime and Brienne also did the face holding thing, but they were on the same level. They were looking directly at each other. If anything the Jonerys face hold should be compared to Cersei and Euron, when Euron kneels in front of Cersei and submits to her.

See the difference?

Now, I get into why Jonerys is like Aerys and Rhaella 2.0. Obviously, Jonerys is basically Lannicest 2.0, where one person has more power over the other, but it’s also like the Mad King and his sister-wife.

After Daenerys burns Varys (which sucked because there’s no way Varys would’ve died that easily. Thanks Tyrion😒), she talks to Jon. She says that Sansa is just as guilty of Varys’s death as she is.

Sansa literally had nothing to do with Varys’s death. She wasn’t the one who passed the sentence. Sansa only gave Tyrion valuable information cause she believed that Jon was the better ruler with the rightful claim.

Anyways, Daenerys goes onto say that she doesn’t have love in Westeros, only fear (which is true). Jon then says that he loves her, which just sounds sooo forced. Like even his face said “Oh god, why do I have to say this?” Daenaerys confronts him saying “Is that all I am to you? Your Queen?”

It then leads to the most disturbing Jonerys kiss scene I’ve ever seen. I can’t put into words just how disgusted I was

Look at him. My poor boy with this demon (no offense Daenerys. I love you but you were awful this season). He literally closes his eyes as if to say “Just let it happen Jon and it’ll be over quicker”

And take a look at this:

Jon’s just standing there letting it happen, while Daenerys waits for him to make the first move. But he doesn’t because he’s afraid of her. This is the episode where D&D claims that Jon doesn’t love Daenerys, which for me I was like:

And then they completely forgot about that and I was upset again.

Now you might be asking: how is Jonerys like Aerys and Rhaella? Well to clarify, I’m not saying their entire relationship as a whole is like that, but this particular scene reminded me of them.

Take a look at this excerpt from A Feast For Crows:

Whenever Aerys would burn somebody, he’d go to Rhaella and “take his pleasure”. And when Daenerys burned Varys, she tries to make love to Jon, which he backs off from.

Daenerys then says “Let it be fear”, almost like saying “Alright. See what happens when you reject me”. What a healthy relationship, am I right?😒

And then finally, the finale. God, this pissed me off. Why did Emilia Clarke think it was a good idea to make Daenerys giddy after she literally burned thousands of people? It just made her look truly insane. Emilia, sweety, I love you. I really do. But please don’t come and say that Jon killed Daenerys because “he hates women”. Believe me, Jon is FAR from a woman hater. And apparently he didn’t talk to her? Jon literally tried to convince Dany to ”make them understand”, but he failed.

At first when Jon yelled to Daenerys saying that she burned children alive, I was like:

I thought “Finally! I’m getting my boy back! He still has sanity left in him!” But then he had to hit me with the “You are my Queen, now and always” and I was like:

Like, they did that. They destroyed my boy and everything he stood for. They made him a mouthpiece for Dany stans and Reek 2.0. The finale was bad enough, but Jesus Christ, this broke me.

—————————————————————

Well, that was a journey. Thankfully the show is over and I can focus on my AU and not worry about leaks. I knew the finale was gonna be bad cause I read the leaks, but it’s truly something else when you experience it.

If you want me to post my version of Jon and Daenerys from “Cookies”, let me know. Or not, I’ll probably do it anyways😅

But until then, the tea has been spilled and the pot has been stirred

[ask-the-crimson-king]

😌 main go to theme song & 🙂 secondary theme song for magnus (although I'm curious for Kazakh too tbh)

[Muse theme song]

[Each have their own unique reasons, and some are less apparent than others. If you wish to know of them, they will be under the cut (plus I got into a bit of Kazakh’s lore too for the last one). If not, then there’s your answer, anon.

Magnus main theme – The Magician by Aether Realm

Kazakh main theme – Veil of Elysium by Kamelot

Magnus secondary theme – The Warlock’s Trail by Bloodbound

Kazakh secondary theme – Roads Untraveled by Linkin Park

The Magician - Aether Realm

No, this is not because of the title. Well, okay, a little bit because of the title. However, there are various other aspects of the song that strike me as being Magnus-esque. First of all, the lyrics. Notably among them; 

Stray not from the Path you’ve chosen,You may yet find what you seek.You will learn to command the Aethereal Realm,And fulfill your Destiny!Cast out of his Land for reachingFor that which lies out of Mortal Sight.Like a Beast he is feared and hunted,Like a Beast he intends to fight. […]Take hold of Strength divine,Shape the World to your Design,And release the Power you keep inside your Heart!

This has deep Magnus vibes for me, precisely about his discoveries and how he started investigating his powers connected to the Empyrean. Now, this is more of a song that I feel reflects a young, very naive and extremely arrogant Magnus who was eagerly learning all he could about the Great Ocean without heeding warnings about it. Plus a small bit about how he was kind of hated for being a psyker (among other things). Also, the last three lines I included I associate a bit with Magnus encouraging his sons to explore their powers, to not shy away from them.

Another thing about the Magician – this little bit right here;

I am the Light when a Life’s at its End,The still burning Candle when Darkness descends.I am Desire, Warmth from the Fire,Fueling your Steps when your Journey began.

I am the Fear twisting tight round your Throat,The Life giving Spark hiding deep in your Soul,I am your Aura, Hunger for Honor,I hold the Power you seek!

The meeting with Tzeentch. The pact to try and save his sons from the Flesh Change. That is what this reminds me of the most. Especially the ‘the Life giving Spark hiding deep in your Soul/I am your Aura, Hunger for Honor,/I hold the Power you seek’ – very Tzeentch-y to me, and something he would convey to a young primarch who wants to save his Legion. In addition to lyrics, instrumentally, this also just… fits. In ways that I can’t quite describe. It does have a bit of a mystical sort of feel to it throughout, from the intro to the guitars, to even the singing. 

Veil of Elysium - Kamelot

Alright. Why Kazakh? Why is this song about a brightly colored birb daemon who collects and hoards shiny things? And possesses knives. One – the chorus. From how the synth-symphonic bits swell, to how Tommy Karevik sings it. It sounds very grand, very loud, flashy, even. To me, anyway. The rest of the instrumentals sound a little more… subdued. Which is a part of Kazakh that isn’t often on display, due to many reasons but I won’t put them here.

Another is the whole theme of a sort of childlike innocence, of remembering good times while one weathers the bad. The lyrics don’t really fit Kazakh in any specific sense, save for:

One day I know we will meet again,In shade of a life to die for.Watching the world through the eyes of a child,In Elysium.Will I find you there?In the darkness of the shadow that comes over allDear friend, will I know you then?Will I know you then at all?

Why? Well… maybe the explanation for his secondary theme will help. But know that Kazakh is a bit more than just a brightly colored birb.

The Warlock’s Trail - Bloodbound

Okay, listen, it is NOT just because it has warlock in the name, this one actually is based on lyrical and instrumental content. 

Yes, I know, ‘oh but redundancy’, hush. Honestly any of these songs can change on a given day, and Wrong Side of Heaven by Five Finger Death Punch and Rise of the Dragon Empire also by Bloodbound were good contenders as well (although the latter is more of something I associate with all primarchs.) Citizen Zero by Kamelot is also a song I associate with Magnus at the Siege of the Fenris system but I already have Kamelot on here and I wanted to be variable with my bands.

If anyone reading wants an explanation of Citizen Zero or any of the other two, go ahead and send an ask.

The main reason why this song fits – The Burning of Prospero. Lyrics:

When we summon the legion of fire and flame,And open the portal of fear.When the quest is so long and the silence is all we hear…

In the mist of the morning a winters day,Came a man in robe from far away.Out of ashes and clay of the magic vale,Cause sorrow sail on the warlock’s trail.

The ritual leading up to Magnus projecting himself to Terra. The first three lines are more Legion-specific, what they were kind of going through, and then the chorus itself is Magnus emerging through the Webway. ‘Sorrow sail on the Warlock’s trail’ can be used for many things – that Prospero will burn, Magnus’ folly, and Horus’ betrayal. The other lyrics, notably the two verses, also work for the battle of Prospero. The first describing daemons and the gathering of the Host to Kill Magnus, the second more of the actual battle itself.

Sorcery, Enchanted by the spell,A stone is magical, Becoming like the gods,Elements,Gathering into the holy light,In life we burn!  

Magnus quickly doing the spell that unmakes his physical form and spirits his sons to Sortiarius. Plus the ‘in life we burn’, kind of the whole Thousand Sons are damned to being dust for eternity. So this can also work for the Rubric

Instrumentals – listen. Just listen to them. They work. That sort of cheesy, cherry sort of whimsy? The bridge with ‘sorcery’? It works. It is aesthetic to Magnus, even if it’s not the ‘I-fucked-everything-up’ Magnus. To me it works.

Roads Untraveled - Linkin Park

Okay. I hear you asking, ‘what sorcery is this?’ A Linkin Park song for a colorful daemon birb with kleptomania? Are you sure you don’t want to add another happy, cheery, cheesy power metal song? Something like that?

Yes.  I am sure.

One of the reasons why Kazakh exists, and one I haven’t really been able to touch on – he’s a companion for Magnus. Kind of like a familiar. An Emotional Service Bastard. Or Birdstard. Or Birbstard. 

That was the intent behind making him, initially. When I originally picked up Magnus as a muse, circa May 2018, pre-Tumblr, I knew that he was sort of a strong, stoic-ish character. As I learned more and more about him, I started to see that regret and sadness were beginning to leak in. Magnus was becoming a bit depressing.

So, to counter this, I made a brightly colored daemon birb to keep him company. Also, something to balance out Magnus, and something for others to have fun with while interacting.

A few people have picked up on the fact that Kazakh is a good companion, one who doesn’t mind being held or hugged when someone is feeling sad. And that is his original intention, he’s supposed to be like that. And yes, I did also originally make him hoard shinies. The knife thing was an addition that came on later, something I didn’t intend to make a mainstay for his character, but other people enjoyed it. I was having fun with it, so I kept it.

There’s the sort of meta-explanation. Now, with this all in mind, look at the lyrics:

Weep not for roads untraveled,Weep not for paths left lone.‘Cause beyond every bend is a long blinding end,It’s the worst kind of pain I’ve known.

Give up your heart left broken.And let that mistake pass on.'Cause the love that you lost, wasn’t worth what it cost,And in time you’ll be glad it’s gone. […]

Weep not for roads untraveled,Weep not for sights unseen.May your love never end and if you need a friend,There’s a seat here alongside me.  

It’s Kazakh speaking to Magnus. I have not yet penned down exactly how they first met, but this did factor into it.

Let’s just say Kazakh has been with Magnus for a pretty long while, and has seen him go through some… things.

So long as Tzeentch doesn’t obliterate him, he’ll be staying for a pretty long while too.]

[ashes-and-ashes]

Could you do a Wolfstar fic when Sirius runs from home and goes to the Potters' and James calls Remus to calm him down. (P.S Love you and your writing. Hope your wrist heals soon 💖)

Hey! Got a bunch of requests for a Sirius Running Away From Home thing, so I wrote it!! I worked pretty hard on this, so hopefully you like it! Just a note: this story is split into 3 parts (this is part 1.) Part 1 is from Sirius’ POV, Part 2 from James’ and Part 3 from Remus’. I’m going to put Part 1 on Tumblr and Part 2 and 3 on my Ao3 once it gets set up. Hope you like this!!

And yep! This is the fanfic that I worked on AND GOT DELETED BECAUSE TUMBLR IS AN ASSHOLE!

@blackpinkdolan @withrewings @iluvharrypotter172 @blitheringmcgonagall @of-stars-and-moon

tw for abuse, homophobia and violence.

That Fateful Night

~

He’s curled up in the corner, the wall cool against his back. Half-awake, almost unconscious, pressing himself into the cold stone.

Dimly, he can feel blood pooling around him.

Sirius doesn’t know how long he’s been there. The house is quiet, the silence heavy and suffocating, his ragged breaths echoing against the walls. A tomb, compared to the shouting and the screaming and the roaring that had filled the room earlier.

He wasn’t sure what had happened. He was in his room, writing a letter to Remus, when he heard the shouting.

“You! Get your worthless ass down here!”

He rushed down the stairs, to find Regulus pressed into the corner, his father lounging on one of the armchairs, his mother at the kitchen table.

She was furious, her rage filling the room, and instinctively, Sirius stepped forward, in front of Regulus, blocking him with his body.

He clenches his teeth against the memory, taking a shuddering breath. Something cracks, deep inside of him, and he winces, pressing a hand to his ribs. It wasn’t the first time Walburga had broken something, and he recognizes the sharp, burning pain that fills his lungs as he struggles to take another breath.

He was used to pain, had been subjected to it ever since he was born. He knew how to handle it, how to clench his teeth and bite his lip and how not to give in. He does this now, one hand braced against the floor, the other against his ribs. Tears burn in his eyes and he blinks them away, furiously, clenching his jaw as he pushes himself up.

He bites down hard, to muffle the scream that almost comes out of his throat. Not now, not now, he thinks, please not now, please don’t let me wake mother up. With a muffled groan, he sits up on his knees, one hand against the wall.

He laughs, a silent, sardonic sound. He thought he knew pain, thought he could take it, but nothing was as painful as seeing those letters.

He closes his eyes, bile burning his throat. He had stepped in front of Regulus, his mother scoffing at him.

“Pathetic,” she said. “Soft, weak-minded lout.”

Fuck off, Sirius had thought, making sure he covered his little brother’s body with his own. He didn’t say this, though, just bared his teeth and hissed, “What is it now, mother?” The last word was spat out, like a curse, years of hatred and anger and neglect filling his voice, bitter and mocking and defiant.

Walburga had said nothing, just pulled a stack of papers from her pocket, dropping them on the table, the sound echoing in the dark room.

And he’d never known fear before, not like this, the panic and the dread and the nausea that settled into his bones. He was frozen, the feeling rising up inside of him, something burning in his throat as he read the oh-so familiar handwriting on the side: To Sirius.

He glanced up, tried so hard not to let his mother see that raw emotion that he felt, threw up that wall between them. He shifted, adjusting his body, another barrier between her and Reg. “What the hell is this, mother?”

There was a sharp cracking sound, Sirius’ head hitting the wall behind him. His lip had been split open, blood trickling down his chin, but all he did was roll his head back and stared at Walburga, her wand still smoking from the spell she had casted. “Going through my mail now?”

There was another crack, hitting him from behind. He turned, his father’s wand pointed directly at him, his side burning. “Do shut up, Sirius.”

He just laughed, met his mother’s stare. “Anything you want to say?”

Walburga clenches her jaw. “Who. The hell. Is Remus?”

His heart pounded, but Sirius just gave her a small smirk. “Like I’d tell you. What more can you do to me? I’m used to it now.”

He saw the spark in Walburga’s eyes, the way it fell on Regulus, and Sirius shook his head. “You’re not touching him.”

He felt Regulus shaking his head, his movements frantic, and Sirius pressed him harder into the wall. “Don’t you dare touch him.”

Orion was on his feet now, wand pointed at Sirius as he said, “Step away.”

“Like fuck I will - “

BANG.

He heard Regulus’ screams, felt the blood run down his leg, and Sirius swore. He turned around, noticing the long gash on Regulus’ side, leaking blood on the ground, panic filling his gut. “What the fuck did you do to him?”

Walburga just laughed. Pain started to fill his side, and Sirius dropped his hand down. With a jolt, he realized what she had done.

She had shot Regulus right through Sirius’ body.

There’s another bang, and Sirius was thrown aside. Walburga held his gaze, her wand pointed at Regulus. “Who is Remus Lupin, and why are you writing him.”

Sirius was breathless, dizzy with pain. “Go to hell.”

There’s a smile on Walburga’s face as she lifted her wand. “Incendio.”

And Regulus was screaming, flames licking over his skin, screaming and screaming and screaming.

The sound Sirius made ripped his throat apart. He lunged forward, wanting to tear Walburga apart, when a sharp yank sent him sprawling. His father stood there, glass of wine in his hand, laughed over Sirius’ roars and Regulus’ screams. Walburga had just shrugged. “Who is Remus Lupin, and why is he writing to you?”

He barely had time to catch Regulus’ head shake before he was screaming again, edged with sobs that made Sirius want to rip his head open -

“He’s a friend from school.” The words bursted out of him, anything to stop the screams. “He’s in my grade, Gryffindor like me. One of my closest friends. Now let him go.”

Walburga had shaken her head. “Why is he writing to you?”

“We’re just friends - “

The wand fell, Walburga turning back to Regulus as Orion frowned. Sirius clenched his jaw, threw up mental shields because he knew what was coming.

The pain felt like his head was split open, Orion digging through his consciousness with sadistic pleasure. He gritted his teeth, tried to counter-attack, tried to throw him out, tried to block out Regulus’ screams -

“I’m dating him.” He spat the words out, clenched his fists. “I’m dating him.”

The room was silent, filled with lethal wrath as Walburga turned towards him. “What did you say?”

He swallowed. “I’m dating Remus.”

“Dating...?” The word broke off, by Walburga’ soft laugh. “Why does that surprise me? I should have known, you being a selfish little fucker.” She bares her teeth. “Should have known you’d be a fag as well.”

Then the wand fell, pain exploded over his body, and Sirius started screaming.

He clenches his teeth now, the agony still holding over his body. He’s shaking, his nerves overloaded by Crucio, sores on his mouth where he’s bitten through flesh. He doesn’t know how bad it is, can feel nothing but waves of pain move up and down his torso.

Sirius reaches forwards, wrapping his fingers around the iron rail of the staircase. He needs to get to his room, get to his wand, heal his ravaged body and figure out what to do. He grits his teeth, glancing up the enormous staircase. This was going to hurt.

With a small grimace, Sirius pulls the handrail, pushing with his other hand, managing to get his knee on the stair. He’s trembling, waves of nausea filling his body, muffling his scream against his shoulder as he pulls the rest of his body onto the stair, curling up into a small ball.

He pants, smiling bitterly. 27 left to go, he thinks, reaching forward for the next rail.

When he finally reaches the top, he’s shaking, sweat dripping down his face. There are score marks across his palm, from where he’s pulled the flesh against the metal, his entire body aching. He bites his lip, carving bloody furrows into the gum, clenching his fists.

It’s almost too much, dragging himself down the hallway, muffling his whimpers against his arm. He wants to sob when he gets to his bedroom, thanking God that he left his door open.

He crawls into his room, kicks the door shut, and for a moment all he can do is gasp, letting the agony wash over him. He collapses on the floor, trying to steady his breathing, the pain obliterating all rational thought and where is my wand -

“Fuck.” It hurts to speak, but Sirius does it anyways. He sees his wand, on his desk, right in the middle. His heart stops, panic filling his gut because it was so high up and God, how can he reach that -

He bites down, hard, not giving himself time to think before he stands up, quickly, skin tearing, pain ripping through him. Blood explodes in his mouth, his ragged breathing filling the room, and he stumbles back, against the bed, letting the pain wash over him. He catches a glimpse of himself in his mirror, all bleeding wounds and broken skin and shattered eyes.

And he’s sobbing, like he’s never done before, sobbing through tightly gritted teeth, legs stretched in front of him. He’s 16 years old, 16, and he’s been tortured and beaten and hurt so badly, and he’s trying so hard to keep it together.

“I can’t do this.” He gasps the words, hyperventilating. “I can’t do this, I can’t...”

With a stifled sob, he places the tip of his wand against his ribs, wincing at the pain. “Episkey.”

Sirius moans, his ribs grating together, and he grips the bed so hard it creaks. “Dark...magic...goddamn it. I can’t heal it, I can’t heal it - “

He grits his teeth, harder, panic flooding him because he’s going to die, in agony, right on his bedroom floor and maybe death wouldn’t be so bad, if only to spare him from the pain. It hurt, so bad, because at least they didn’t know before, never could hurt him in that way, but now his secret was out and he had to get out, he had to get out -

I have to get out.

The words jolt him, startling him. I need to get out.

With a grimace, he places his wand against his chest. “Sine Sensu.”

He gasps, taking a breath, the pain fading slightly, just enough to function. His trunk is in the corner, full of his school supplies, and he hurriedly stuffs some clothes, the remainder of Remus’ letters and a bag of coins into it. He slings his cloak over his head, levitating the trunk with his wand and exits, locking the door behind him.

The stairs are hard, Sirius gripping onto the banister tightly as he gingerly limps down each step, occasionally vanishing drops of his blood from his drag upstairs.

He finally gets to the bottom, turning his back on the dark kitchen beside him, lugging his trunk into the main foyer. In the daytime, it was beautiful, sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

He stops dead, Regulus blocking his way to the door. The moon rose behind him, framing him in silver, the burns prominent on his thin face. “I knew you’d be leaving.”

Sirius exhales. “Reg. Reg, please, please, you have to let me go.”

Regulus is expressionless, his voice monotone. “Running away? What happened to my older brother, Sirius? The one who would ‘always protect me’ from mother?” The tone is mocking, bitter.

Sirius’ voice is low, shaking. “I can’t live like this, Reg, I can’t - “

“You lived with it for 16 years.”

Sirius shakes his head. “It’s not just that.” He scoffs, tears in his eyes, self-loathing in his gut. “They never used to know. About me, I mean. That I’m...that I’m...”

“Gay?” The word is cold, empty, and Sirius swallows. “Yeah. It was the one part of me they couldn’t touch, you know? Everything they did...everything they said...it never hurt as bad, because they didn’t know.” He looks up. “And now they do. So you have to let me go, Reg. You have to.”

Regulus’ face is unmoving, motionless. Sirius is pleading now, a desperate, broken plea. “Please, Reg. I covered you. For 16 years I was tortured and abused and beaten and I endured it because of you. Because I love you. And I would do all of it again to save you.” He’s trembling, fingers pressed together. “But I can’t take this anymore. I can’t.”

Regulus is emotionless, his voice quiet. “You love him? The boy, I mean. Remus?”

Sirius nods, his voice a whisper. “I....” He swallows. “Yes.”

There’s a silence, stretching between them. Memories of a lifetime, two boys building forts together, one reading to another, lying in the same bed. Because no matter what, no matter the horrors and the pain, they were still brothers, still family.

When Regulus speaks, his face is open, unguarded. “Go. Get out of here.” A tiny smile lights his face. “Take my broom. Mother and father locked yours up, and mine is faster, anyways. Go. And don’t come back.”

Sirius nods. “Thank you.” He’s about to turn away, bitterness welling inside him, when he whips around, wrapping his brother in a hug. “Come with me. Please. Screw then, we can be safe. We can be free.”

Regulus’ eyes are closed, his fingers clutching Sirius’ so hard, they go white. “You know I can’t.”

There are so many things he wants to say, so many secrets. I’m sorry, for everything, for being so difficult. For screwing up your life.

But the words can never be spoken, never uttered, so Sirius releases Regulus. “Stay alive. Please.”

Regulus nods. “You too.”

He knows it’s a goodbye, a final statement, that the next time they meet, they will be enemies, and Sirius wants to scream. He pushes his brother’s hair out of his face, presses a kiss to his forehead. “If you need me...I’ll always be there.”

Regulus just nods.

So Sirius turns, lifting his trunk.

And he steps out of the Black Family Manor for the very last time.

[wahbegan]

The Scary Asylum Trope (From Somebody Who’s Been Committed)

I can’t help but feel that the very loud and righteous voices of people with the best of intentions....who also have no idea what the fuck they’re talking about often overshadow those with a more nuanced and realistic view of the world because they’ve been through the shit. Especially on this site. In the real world, of course, both are drowned out by the man who both has bad intentions AND no idea what he’s talking about, but either way, the fact remains: people with first-hand experience of the ugliness of society saying shit nobody wants to hear, especially shit that makes the world a bit more morally grey and a bit more frightening than anyone would like to deal with are never listened to. 

 Although it’s often overlooked, I think we can all agree that the mentally ill and substance-addicted are among the most cast-off and overlooked members of society. Junkheads and crazies are already struggling to survive and nobody wants to give them a job, get too close to them, give them money, have them wandering the streets or coming into their businesses. Unlike other forms of oppression, one of the most insidious things about this is it’s opposed by almost nobody. “Don’t give that guy money, he’s a crackhead”, “stay away from that bum, she’s not right in the head, she’s dangerous”, “we can’t give you a job because of your history with substance abuse”, none of these statements are remotely controversial with the vast majority of people. A lot of people get angry when you say they should be or even suggest the mentally ill (not disabled, mind you, just ill) or addicted are even oppressed by society at all. Addicts, particularly. The general consensus is they ARE dangerous, they DO do illegal shit, they ARE unpredictable and unable to work reliably or have an interpersonal relationship with you, and most importantly...they brought this on themselves. This, of course, brings us to that great garbage bin of society’s dregs, the mental hospital.

Okay, so a bit of background. In Senior Year of college, I was alcoholic, cartoonishly depressed, and trying to deal with vague, unspecified shit that may have been trauma or a personality disorder or something I do not know, all I have ever been officially been diagnosed with is depression, but that doesn’t cover everything. I don’t know to this day exactly what’s wrong with me and I’ve gotten too old and used to it to really care enough to speculate. But long story short, one night I got too mouthy about a suicide attempt as I often do...to be honest, I think my crippling fear of the oblivion i believe follows death tends to manifest as loudly telegraphing my intentions to commit so that I have a chance to wake up even if I don’t chicken out at the last second...but anyway. My friend Vanessa came by my door and helped me down out of the home-made belt noose in my closet, and the cops were called. Cue being taken away in a cop car in handcuffs and 96 hours in a mental hospital without ANYONE believing any of my attempts to defend myself or even being put before a judge how’s that for due process ladies and gentlemen?

I won’t say what hospital I was in due to all the horrible shit I’m about to say about its character, but I WILL say when i first got there, many a joke was made about a then very topical certain someone who was known as a whistleblower and/or traitor depending on where you fall on the political spectrum who leaked a bunch of CIA and NSA shit. Oh, yeah, completely unrelated, did I mention I went to the University of Mary Washington in Fredericksburg, VA? Just a fun tidbit.

Anyway, I know this is slow in getting to the point, so let’s cut to the meat of the thing. From Outlast (the good one), to Arkham Asylum, to Silence of the Lambs, Session 9, Halloween, to House on Haunted Hill (the bad but enjoyable one), to that story some kid in grade school and/or your older sister wouldn’t shut the fuck up about that had an escaped mental patient who apparently the staff had deemed wise to give a pirate hook for a hand, the common consensus is: mental hospitals are fucking scary. More specifically, crazy people are fucking scary.

In recent years, as we’ve all grown a little more compassionate and people give the mentally ill at least a few months or years before they decide your shit is too much for them to deal with and throw you out like a leper, there’s been very strong pushback against this. Particularly on places like tumblr and other random blogs and op eds around the internet. It’s easy to see why. Dehumanizing the mentally ill is not only offensive to people who CAN actually generally understand and remember what you say about us, thank you very much, it’s just lazy. People like Michael Myers (no not that one the scary one) and Joker, who would NEVER see the inside of a hospital due to their clear intelligence and control over their actions, are thrown in an asylum as a cheap plot device, and classifying a character as crazy lets you ignore pesky little things like “character motivation” and “consistent characterization in general, fuckwit”. People may even praise your character for lacking those things if they’re cuh-RAZY enough. Again, Michael Myers (still not that one) and Joker.

I’m a huge fan of the pushback against the escaped mental patient with a hook trope. Having been a mental patient myself, I can assure you that almost all ANYONE wants to break out of that shit hole to do is get some good fucking food, sleep in a real bed, and pork their significant other. Mr. Pirate Hook, in a realistic version of that story, may have jumped the teen lovers for their car just to drive it to the liquor store and then his girlfriend’s house.

The problem is, and this is the main point of this giant fucking essay, that there is now also considerable related pushback against asylums being scary places. Ironically enough, this is coming not mainly from certifiable and dangerous-to-themselves-or-others type people. This pushback is coming from very well-meaning young adults with anxiety disorders and/or depressive episodes who are very sweet and god bless them I just know for a fact have never EVER seen the inside of one of these fucking places. It is coming from people who don’t want asylums to be seen as scary places because they want the mentally ill to want to go to them. To help them, ostensibly, but a tiny little cynical “fuck everyone” part of me thinks it’s more like to sweep their mess into someone else’s room so they don’t have to fucking handle it.

Now, before I continue, let me stress that the place I was in was a bit renowned for being a terrible shit hole. I’m sure my experience would have been a lot nicer at a suburban 50k a day mansion rehab for celebrities in the hills of Los Angeles. You don’t condemn all hotels in the world because of one particularly traumatic stay at the bumblefuck nowhere clown motel next to the old graveyard (yes that is a real thing), right? And unlike hotels, there’s no such thing as an asylum critic. A lot of people do NEED to be hospitalized for safety, and a lot of people DO, through one method or another, find themselves better off by the end of their stay. And I’m sure the go-to solution for any and all of life’s problems isn’t “tranq them in the ass and throw them in an isolation room” in EVERY hospital. But I get a sneaking suspicion it’s most of them. With that disclaimer out of the way, let’s continue.

Mental hospitals are the most terrifying fucking places in the world. Every time one of my well-meaning friends who’s never been committed says they think a brief hospital stint would do me good, I want to throw a blender at their fucking head. Every one of your relatively well-adjusted but probably on an anti-depressant or anxiety meds guidance counselor and social workers friends will list their good qualities until they’re blue in the face and tell you it’s not at all like the movies and there’s nothing to be scared of. It’s not like the movies, most of the time. Not exactly. But that resort and bond with people who have been through the same thing as you and time to work on yourself and group therapy and art class pitch they sell you on? Yeah, it’s bullshit.

Let’s continue with my story. When I was brought in from the main hospital, they first sent me to acute. I’ve been to county jail, and I’ve been to the acute treatment (read: high risk/high security) wing in an asylum, and I would pick county. Every fucking time. Bless her heart, my patient and long-suffering girlfriend at the time, who had been by my side for the whole process, was sitting next to me and holding my hand as they did the intake survey. They were at least compassionate enough or smart enough to know I would be a lot more placid and manageable with her around to let her stay for the intake process. Outside, the hallway was dark, one guy was on a prison-style wall-mounted phone, some dudes were playing cards, a woman was wandering up and down the hallway....and up and down and up and down and up and down the hallway. And from somewhere, someone was screaming. Not words. Just...screaming. Nobody seemed to do anything about it, see what she was screaming about. I don’t know if it was agony, misery, or fury. Maybe some combination of the three. On and on and on, with breaks seemingly only to get her breath back. I was in the acceptance stage at this point, and was busy shutting down emotional channels one by one and going into survival mode, steeling myself for my stay, but my girlfriend at the time...she looked terrified and broken-hearted. The thought of her leaving a loved one in this windowless pit (this wing, you see, was underground) destroyed her. I could tell. It would me, if I were in her situation. It is a traumatizing situation to be in. There’s no way out, nobody believes anything you say unless you tell them the worst, you can see that woman out in the hall passing back and forth and back in forth in the door window, and someone is screaming like she’s in Hell. Maybe she was.

The screaming was when I first realized an ugly truth and my morals were shaken into a grey zone: people who are mentally ill can be pretty fucking scary. Even if they’re harmless. I never saw that woman or found out why she was screaming. But in that moment, I desperately feared her and hoped I would never find out. It’s easy now for me to look back on her with compassion and pity and feel ashamed for my reaction, wish I could have helped her, but then...I was already in a fragile place. She scared me. And this leads to the next conclusion, even worse. You scare other people, and maybe it’s understandable that they’re scared. 

I deeply repress my anger. I have never in my life been violent or had the urge to be, and I don’t plan on changing that. But my anger is repressed. It can take a lot of battering before it shows itself...but when it comes out, it’s in a sudden, explosive, deep-throat scream worthy of a jump scare in a horror movie showing a protagonist is losing his mind and can’t be trusted any more. I usually only get about half a sentence out in this way before I scare myself, my eyes go wide with horror, I clap my hands over my mouth and run out of the room crying. But by then it’s too late. I got so drunk so often I forgot huge chunks of my past and have no idea what I said or did. I emotionally wounded people. I acted unpredictably. I asked to borrow a friend’s cigarette while she was DRIVING, and casually, with no warning, ground it out on my arm. My girlfriend often found me passed out through booze or asphyxiation or covered in blood. Crazy is undeniably scarier to live with than it is to witness, and I often get frustrated when it feels like people don’t remember or fully understand that. But...that doesn’t mean witnessing it isn’t fucking horrible. People were being perfectly rational to be afraid around me. Never afraid OF me, everyone who knows me knows of my physically gentle nature (with others) and desperate desire to be a good person. But they were afraid: afraid of my behavior when I wasn’t in control, of what reckless and insane shit I might do to self-destruct and/or inadvertently hurt people around me.

Thankfully, my intake survey and a nurse who noticed my relatively normal behavior both indicated I should be in the (above-ground!) high-functioning wing, so I was quickly moved there. I never figured out who that scream belonged to. But even in high-functioning...it wasn’t much reprieve. A woman shit the bed, a man fresh out of acute regaled us with stories of getting tranqed and thrown in isolation because he had barricaded himself in his room with all his furniture and berated the orderlies as they tried to force their way in about “you should really bolt the furniture down it’s a safety risk I could be killing myself in here” because he was bored. My only friend in the wing, who I really did like quite a lot and still do even though we fell out of touch, had a roommate who was always acting like she was just on the edge of doing something fucking stupid. Once, her husband smuggled her a shaving razor, which she whipped out in front of my friend, waving it around and threatening to kill herself. When my friend alerted the orderlies, this woman put it (IN ITS CASE I always feel I should clarify) up her pussy to hide it and feigned ignorance, resulting in my friend going to isolation. No tranq though. This was the high-functioning unit, after all.

Your one-on-ones with the psychiatrist were roughly 3-5 minutes in length and consisted of medication questions and asking if you were literally going to beat your head against a wall until you died in the next 15 minutes, otherwise talk about it in group. The more you insisted to this man that you were fine and shouldn’t be here and inquired about the legal status of your incarceration and when you could be released, the worse he thought you were. 

There were times to gather and talk about feelings. There was art. Some people were very good at it. Visiting hours. But most of the time was just...sitting. Sitting, bored out of your god damned skull, so bored you might just barricade your room with all of its furniture and laugh and laugh and laugh as the orderlies try to force their way in. The patient man doesn’t need to inflict physical torture to break someone. Isolation and boredom do things to the human mind, maybe sooner, maybe later, but...up there, I said hospitals make a lot of people better. They also make a lot of people worse. Then they have to stay for longer. When they’re finally released, they don’t remember how to live in the normal world and soon end up back inside. 

Just like prison. Make no mistake, the asylum is a prison. A prison where nobody believes a god damned word that comes out of your mouth. A prison for people nobody wants to deal with. A prison where they stick you with people whose crazy does NOT fuck with your crazy and you start to think maybe people are right for not wanting to deal with you after all. That’s the worst part of negative emotional reactions to symptoms of mental illness. How god damned much they remind you of yourself. The trauma I mentioned off-hand up there was that my ex from High School may or may not have abused me it’s complicated and fuzzy i don’t remember it’s not important. What is important is a new girl came in once who casually admitted to abusing her boyfriend. I backed away slowly and retreated into a private room, where my one friend had to comfort me. Later, the class clown, Mr. Barricade Tranq-in-the-Ass, made a rape joke in front of her. A rape survivor.

Everyone’s mind breaks in very similar ways, but for very different reasons and with just different enough symptoms and fears and psychotic hatreds that there WILL be people in your unit you fucking hate, whose crazy and yours grind on each other’s gears. There will be people you are afraid of, people you’re stupidly attached to for no reason other than they’re there and nice to you.

Throwing all these people in a hole and throwing away the key does not create an environment conducive to anyone’s mental health. Then, of course, there’s the treatment. Yes, like I said, if you’re willing to petition like 5 people about it and constantly remind them, you may get some good one-on-one time. You may get some good nuggets out of group therapy. You might make nice art. Mostly, though, they cut you off from the outside world and take you away from everything you love and put you with a bunch of potentially terrifying strangers and just fucking leave ya there. To rot. 

The problem with mental hospitals is the problem they’ve always had. No, obviously nobody’s head is in a cage and they don’t electrocute and lobotomize you, but the theory is the same. They want you to stop being crazy. But first, and foremost, they want to keep you there and keep you under control. That is the primary goal. Not treatment. Keeping you there and controlled. I suppose if you consider the history of asylums it’s quite humane, but I wasn’t joking up there about the tranqs in the ass.Everything from death threats to trying to pork another patient to getting too lippy with a nurse is treated with the tried and true ass-tranq isolation room. How long will you be in there? Who knows!! Until they remember they put you in there and/or the shit that you’ve smeared on the walls starts to smell. 

And all of this leads to the most horrible conclusion of all, the kind that makes people truly lose their minds if they think about it too long in that Lovecraftian/Poe kind of way where your hair turns white: maybe there is no right way to handle mentally ill people, and if there is, we sure as fuck haven’t found it yet.

The mentally ill are oppressed and deserve compassion. Love. Support. But we can also be terrifying to the mentally well, to each other, to ourselves...and forcing all of these people into a cage they don’t want to be in with strangers who they’re irritated with and scared of who are irritated and scared right back at them and leaving them in this weird, artificially constructed, regimented society until you deem them fit to leave is....ha. Well, it’s crazy!. And it is scary. And it can and often does make people worse. 

So please, don’t...don’t say mental hospitals shouldn’t be seen as scary or shouldn’t be used in horror. By all means, do it. But do it well. Look to Outlast. See, in Outlast, the set-up is very trite. Big asylum, patients escaped and massacred the staff. But you’re there on a tip that human rights abuses and clandestine experiments were being performed. Most of the inmates are doing vaguely unnerving shit but are harmless, just like a real hospital. Some are just fucking watching TV. And the game is never satisfied with “this guy’s crazy.” Walker, the ‘UGE FUCKIN GOI who everyone’s terrified of has awful PTSD and if you listen to his idle dialogue, is always muttering about containment protocol and stopping the spread of something. And by the end of the game, you realize he might not be as crazy as he seemed, and that the patients massacring the hospital staff was completely understandable and maaaybe even a little bit their own fucking fault. One guy, in an absolutely heart-wrenching and my absolute favorite part of the game, is just sitting broken in a burning kitchen talking about how this place took everything from them because nobody cares about a few abused or dead lunatics, so he’s gonna burn the whole fucking thing down.

You know what it basically comes down to? Most of the crazy people aren’t dangerous. Some are, but the ones that are have clear motivations. Crazy ones, but motivations. Almost like........ooohhh the point emerges REAL FUCKING PEOPLE! Make villains crazy. Well, all right to be honest, it wouldn’t hurt to slow down a bit on that, but I don’t want it to stop entirely. Depict asylums as the Hellish shit holes they are. But for God’s sake, just write mentally ill people like human beings. A human being you can’t understand isn’t the same thing as a non-human. Nobody does things for NO reason at all. If you’re writing a crazy villain, don’t make him evil because he’s crazy and the symptoms of his crazy are being evil; if you’re setting something in an asylum, make sure the horror doesn’t start and end with guys in straightjackets frothing at the mouth and screaming about how they want to fuck whoever’s walking past them in the aorta. 

I don’t want the truth about us, our condition, our capacity for harming those around us, or how fucked up it is how society treats us because it has no idea what the fuck it’s doing sanitized because it’s difficult to deal with and there are no clear good guys.

[writingarchangels]

Adfectus (Samifer AU) Prologue

Pairing: Sam X Lucifer

Warnings: some violence

Word count: (prologue is 1K, and so far the story is 9.8K - still a WIP)

‘He’s fire and ice. I fear the cold, but grave the burn.’

Note: I figured that it’s about time I shared a longer story of mine - meaning a non-one shot. I probably won’t publish the entire thing here (Tumblr is more for one shots really...) but I WILL link it up to where the rest of the story can be found so no worries.

Summary

One small act can hold great consequences and change the course of the future. What if Azazel had died years before he could make Sam one of his 'special children' and the Winchester brothers never grew up in the hunting business?

Instead of knives and guns, Sam grew up with books and pens. Instead of staying in smelly motels, he owned a nice comfy home by the woods. Ever since he moved to northern California, the woods held his fascination; there was just something he could never quite explain. There hung a tranquility over them, an ambiance that could not be put into words as he walked between the immense trees.

On one fateful day, as he takes a walk with his corgi through the woods, he ends up meeting someone who will change his life forever and make him question everything he has ever thought to know and understand. An entity who, according to all common sense, shouldn't even be allowed to exist in the mortal world. The 'normal' life Sam has always known is over, and suddenly he finds himself fighting for his very life... and the unexpected love he has found along the way.

Prologue

For countless millennia, since the dawn of creation, he has been sealed away in complete isolation, removed from light and life itself. He had nothing but his thoughts to keep him company. As the eons dragged on, he slowly became unstable, maddened by his own mind.

That is what true damnation is like.

There was nothing that the Archangel Lucifer wouldn't do if it meant he could feel sunlight on his skin again, walk the earth and feel the grass between his toes, anything to be free from his personal prison in the deepest and darkest pits of Hell.

It had taken him eons, the passage of time dragged on which felt like forever, to find a way out. Azazel had died years ago, so his freedom all depended on himself. Constructed by God himself, the Cage was supposed to be perfect, but Lucifer had found a weak spot, a crack he could wiggle through. It did come at a price, he had realized, but wanting to do anything if it meant his freedom, he was willing to pay.

Doing just that, he freed himself in a burst of a radiant light which lit up every corner of Hell as he blazed through it in his true form, towards his own freedom.

~~

As time passed, he was able to find himself a vessel. A mortal man who went by the name of Nick. Spreading out his immense wings and feeling the wind move through his sensitive feathers, he soared freely after having been trapped for eons, letting the wind take him away to wherever as he allowed his heart to feel a moment of peace - something which seemed to amuse his vessel very much.

His moment was only short-lived, for it didn't take long for the cracks in his mind to appear. It was as if something took away big chunks of his memories. His memories were what made him who he was, the very core of his existence. A cry tore from Lucifer's throat and he staggered, nearly dropping from the sky as he held on to the fading pieces of himself.

Everything comes at a price, Lucifer remembered. Now it was time for him to pay.

Having succumbed to his fate, the Archangel completely tensed up in dismay when he felt a surge of celestial energy through the air. Trusting his instincts, he flew up, evading the angel who had dived his way.

Michael.

His brother looked up at him with blazing eyes, yet Lucifer could see the underlying confusion. "How did you get free?!" Michael called out to him through the wind.

"I found a weak spot," Lucifer simply replied, clenching his jaw. He really couldn't afford to lose time with Michael like this. "Michael, listen to me. We're brothers. We don't have to fight each other! Let's just walk off the chessboard," he desperately tried. He knew how stubborn his brother could get but no matter what had happened between them in the past, Lucifer still loved him, and he did not want to fight if he could avoid it.

Michael fell silent, and Lucifer's heart skipped a beat upon the prospect of Michael actually agreeing with him, but Michael's next words completely crushed any hope he had left. "I’m sorry, Brother. But you are a monster and I have to kill you."

"I just want to be free and live like everyone!" Lucifer screamed out in desperation, voice hoarse as he concentrated his powers and made sure that Michael couldn't sense it, all the while keeping a hold of his very being to make sure it did not fall apart right now. I just need to hold it out for a bit longer, he thought to himself.

"I have my orders." Avoiding his eyes, Michael flew up in a flash, his mind set. The only reason that Lucifer could see him move, was because he was an angel himself. Folding one wing against his side, Lucifer flew sideways to avoid his brother’s deadly attack, but he wasn’t fast enough, Michael’s blade piercing his skin and sinking deep into his flesh.

Throwing back his head, Lucifer screamed, his true voice piercing through and shattering the sky as some of his grace leaked from the wound, mixed with blood.

"Lucifer!" He heard his vessel call out to him in panic. The angel and the vessel were intertwined, their fates connected. Any pain Lucifer felt, Nick felt just the same. If Lucifer died… Nick did as well.

As a tear escaped from his now fiery red eyes, Lucifer unleashed the powers he held trapped within and managed to catch Michael by surprise as the celestial energy explodes high in the sky, creating a shockwave which made the sky tremble and banish Michael back to Heaven for the time being.

The blade had torn free from his side during the blast and the Archangel fell, closing his eyes tightly as he wrapped his shaking wings around himself to somewhat protect his body from the coming impact. He landed in a field, surrounded by a forest, with a yelp and loud thud as the ground shook. A groan came from his lips as the world spun around him both from the impact he made, and the wound inflicted on him by most likely an Archangel Blade.

Lucifer’s memories dwindled, slowly drifting away from him despite his efforts to keep his mind together. His very essence, the very core of who he was slipped through his mental fingers. His vessel screamed his name in full on panic - but as he slowly forgot who he was, not sure if Nick was real or a figment of his imagination anymore, the man’s voice grew fainter and fainter until Lucifer couldn't hear him at all anymore.

Vaguely, he heard a dog barking in the distance as he lost the last of his memories and darkness took him.

There is always a price to pay. And the price for his freedom were his own memories.

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[fantroll-purgatory]

Here's my trollsona!

@twilightseaprisoner

This character is really fun, but is a little… thematically confused, we’ll say. We’ve got reddit, hipsters?, the dark carnival, mystery skulls, giant wolves, mutation, godzilla, albino gorillas, heathers references… Nothing wrong with any of these separately, but when trying to create a coherent character it’s a little overwhelming. I think I want to take two Core ideas- specifically Mystery Skulls and Godzilla, oddly enough, and roll with those.

Now, the theme of Mystery Skulls (the animations and not the songs on their own, at least) is that Lewis was killed and comes back as a vengeance-bent ghost, and Godzilla is obviously about nuclear radiation and mutation (in a very specific cultural context, but I think Godzilla has been divorced from that context for enough years that I can leave it at that for this review). 

I thiiink, the way this should go for your character’s background/theme could be that she and her lusus live by the weird alternian equivalent of a defunct nuclear power plant, and she gets killed by someone- maybe a friend, it’s up to you- and she gets dumped in the water and Oh She’s A Zombie Mutant Ghost Thing Now. And She’s Out For Revenge. With a story like this, we can even keep the chainsaw/Heather Chandler joke since she got Very Murdered by her friend (welll, J.D. did it, but Details) and in the musical at least she ghost-bothered Veronica for the rest of the play. 

Name: Tanyya Cherep - It’s fucking ‘Mystery Skulls’ in Russian. 

It’s a very google translate version, but yep. However, Tanya is a human name, so it looks a little funny as a troll name… Maybe we could do Venyye instead? It also comes from the word mystery, so it won’t ruin the joke. Venyye Cherep.  Species: Troll Gender: Female Age: 8 sweeps Derse or Prospit?: Derse Strife Specibus: chainsawkind Land: The Land of Hourglasses and Stars (LoHaS)

I can see where this comes from with the time theme, but I think I want to draw in her character a bit more… Maybe the Land of Lithium Chloride and Midnight. 

Lithium Chloride is used as a flame colorant to make flames this color: 

And pink flames are obviously a big theme in Mystery Skulls Animated. Aaand Midnight is a suggestion specifically as a reference to the Doomsday Clock. 

Title: Seer of Time

I don’t know quite how Seer she reads to me… I might call her a Thief of Time, really.

Blood color: Purple

Symbol: The dick sign (Sign of the Bold) Lusus: A gigantic mutated wolf, a gigantic mutated crocodile that is the size of a football field that could kick the SHIT out of Godzilla against me and my best friend George who is a rare albino gorilla and let me tell you something right now, me and George? We get our asses kicked and I don’t want to ruin it for you guys but Jesus Christ but we don’t quit. 

I have to be honest with you I don’t know what I just read. I’m very lost. What is happening. LOL. That said I think just making her lusus godzilla works. Godzilla can breathe underwater and is said to be the midpoint between aquatic and terrestrial lizards, so that works well for a purple. Used to be a normal humble lizard and then the power plant leaked into the water and Oops. Big.

Trolltag: dimensionalHatred

Dimensional calls up like, space imagery, so I don’t know how well it works for a time char! Maybe everlastingHatred instead? 

Quirk: >talks in lowercase and in the style of greentexts you can find on 4chan >mfw this quirk is a ripoff of kuprum’s >goddammit.gif Personality: Tanyya is a rather hateful troll who was a member of the Dark Carnival for nearly her entire life, although with her almost purely neutral evil persona she’s actually a pretty nice guy… kinda, she’s a huge dick to those she dislikes and would usually mess with them by stepping on their feet and pulling on their hair. She also has an insanely large temper with a fuse that may already be lit, and when I say temper? I mean it as in a ticking time bomb. When someone actually befriends her, she enjoys cooking and talking to them like anybody would.. even though she seems to be a bit introverted, she could talk about specific interests for hours. 

The temper is fun, because it’s definitely a lot like a Purpleblood, and it fits the doomsday countdown/nuclear theme that I’ve put in her background too.  Likes: Eating live grubs (especially indigobloods), beating the shit out of other trolls with her chainsaw, Grape Faygo   Dislikes: Troll Naruto, kung pow penis, living off of other trolls’ misfortune just so she could ignore her ever growing depressive state  Ma’am do NOT eat live grubs that’s terrible. Voice Headcanon: Undyne Outfits: - Normal - Derse Outfit  - #HipsterBullshit - God Tier - God Fear (basically Crockertier but pink) - Bloody Stream Quadrants: <3 -  <> - The Tumblr troll my friend trash-v is making  o8< -  <3< -  - anime is banned - she finessed your bitch (ay) - she’ll fuck you softly with a chainsaw

“finessed your b” ?!? you didn’t say she was a charmer and lover-stealer anywhere, lol. Also the phrase “fuck me gently with a chainsaw” is an expression of Disbelief at something being impossible or ridiculous I know it’s a goof but Heathers is one of my special interests and I have to clear that up. 

Design time: 

Not too many changes! I edited some colors and outlines to make things read better. I didn’t know if there was a reason for the pink and green accents, so I left them be, but if there isn’t a reason they should be taken off. 

Mostly I edited her face to make the paint bits weird glowy pink scars instead. Because she’s a Dead Radiation Zombie now, and it is of course a reference to Lewis from Mystery Skulls. 

Thanks for sharing and I hope this review helped!

-CD

[prayer-experience]

Fri. 08/19/22

5:39am

Viewing this video to the end took me by deep surprise from a woman that doesn't seem to wear her heart on her sleeve, her conversion in Christ had me awestruck. Her friend who led the podcast prayed for her upon one of their meetings. By divine guidance her heart was ready to recieve. Her language was simple in the beginning and at times unemotional it seemed, but by the end her full embrace of God stretched her countenance and words through the Holy Spirit. It just struck me how quick it was for her and I know it has everything to do with God and his seasons for people before they are ready to harvest. God had me stumble on a scripture on Tumblr "The field is ready to harvest but the workers are few." Another scripture pops in my head stating "Many are ready for truth but they know not where to find it" I went to a meeting for Young Women's in place of the President and found that the Baptismal Font had been leaking. It cost the Church money I'm sure as the City of Rocky Mount called to inform us. They made a joke in the meeting about the city believing we were baptizing many people. I believe it is a sign from God that the field is ready, but the workers are few. I believe God has great expectations on us and is bringing more young people in to help us with the harvest. I stumbled upon a talk from a lesson in YW's that redirected me to a missionary talk called, 'Put your trust in the Lord.' It encouraged us to pray for missionary opportunities. It addressed our fears on missionary work stating that the Lord will not leave us to struggle with insecurities. They shared scriptures that God giveth good gifts to those that ask. Others may give a child a stone when they ask for bread but our Father will never do that to us and if we ask for the things we stand in need of to do his work he will provide them to us because our Father is good and his children outside of the gospel are most precious to him. He thinks about them daily and we should too. I'm about to switch back to GrubHub and I have to prepare myself to do so in a different manner through Christ. What if God has me stumble on a person he needs in the church, I must be ready in spirit. I was reading aloud in my room the Book of Mormon in my language to practice and I stumbled across something that I knew would make my people laugh and it made me stop in the middle my reading to laugh and I swear I heard a crowd of my own people on the other side laughing with me in the way we'd laugh in a crowded room together over something we found hilarious in good nature. I think there are people ready on the other side to get baptized. The work has to continue on both sides.