#it's still out for discussion if I'm a human or not

[rom-e-o]

We've discussed it with the Scrooges, it only seems pertinent to extend it to our DA couples.

What do we think it was like the first time Emmrich popped a surprise erection around Wifey?

Aaaaah, yes. Hehehe.

Listen, the man is a gentleman with his brushes and razors and fine dressing gowns, but he's still human. Very human, very red-blooded, and very fascinated by the woman who has just inspired such a reaction from him. It's been a while since he's seen anyone serious, after all. ;)

I think it poses an interesting question ... when is the first time it happens at all, and when is the first time Wifey notices it?

I don't want to speak for Guinevere, but I can definitely imagine it happening quite early. After all, these Raven lovebirds move at a pretty fast pace with their first date and second date being pretty spicy (I read your ask like 'DAMN, good for them!'). Does it happen during their first kiss? Hmm. Emm may be a little too seasoned for a kiss to get him at full-mast, so to speak.

Emm strikes me as a guy who won't get that aroused until there is some deeper feeling. Once he starts to think she's the one? THAT really gets him going, in my mind.

What do you see for G'iney, in your mind?

For Isma specifically, I have an hc that it's two separate occasions.

The first time ever is when she slips into the water and he dives in without a second thought to retrieve her.

He pulls her ashore, and she's clinging to him. She's wet (all over, haha), breathless, trembling, and her face is incredibly close to his. When she does look up at him, her expression is one of blissed out relief. "Oh...thank you, Emmrich."

It's a painful throb in that moment, when he realizes how badly he wants her. Also, there's guilt. She nearly drowned, and now his anatomy is betraying him by getting hard at the aftermath of the ordeal?! He's nearly ashamed, and pulls away before she can notice.

The first time it happens and she notices? It's after their dinner date. Where he scolds her favorite non-color, lmao.

When they kiss after the meal, I imagine she's pressed back in that chair while he deepens the touch. He leans in, and when she starts gasping his name, she feels it. At first, she thinks it's some Watcher ornament or mage totem on him, but...nope.

Sensing her surprise, he readies himself to pull away, but Isma's hands quickly seize his shoulders.

"It's just ... been a while," she tells him softly, shyly, "Since a man has done that for me. I don't mind. I-I quite like it, actually. I'd also like if we could keep kissing, maybe?"

They don't go all the way (that happens in the coffin for her, haha) but her knee does find a very pleasant spot against his crotch, and the necking that follows is quite superb.

Btw, I'm curious of your opinion: I do see a lot of people hc that Emm and their Rook consummate their relationship on the dinner date rather than the coffin. I think it's fascinating so many people came to that conclusion. i like it. actually, but for Isma, I think he first time with him is in the crypt. (Sorry for the chill, girl.)

[separatist-apologist]

How Did It End

Summary: When Morrigan was eighteen years old, she found a rare, enduring love with a human princess during the human rebellion. That love died gasping in her arms, and Mor swore she would never love another again.

Five hundred years later, standing in a training ring, Mor recognizes a pair a hazel eyes.

For @sjmromanceweek

Note: I stole this idea from @ablogofsapphicpanic who thought it would be a good idea for feysand. I'm not sorry.

Read on AO3

-

War was hell.

Morrigan wasn’t built for it, though she excelled all the same. She’d been born to privilege, to be the pampered, pretty daughter of a lord. The dutiful daughter that secured her family’s position without complaint. And maybe in another life, Mor was that daughter—sometimes she wished she could have been. She’d tried to be, in every way she could.

She dressed the way they wanted her to, held her cutlery exactly right and spun around a dance floor with such grace strangers had once wept at the sight. Mor walked with her spine straight, her chin held high, her hair a perfectly curled cascade of gold. Men stopped to look. 

She rarely noticed them.

Seventeen years, and one night with Cassian had told Mor all she’d ever needed to know about herself. It had been a moment of defiance—her first ever, truthfully—to avoid a brutal, cruel marriage to a brutal, cruel male. 

Cassian was handsome. He was kind. He’d been patient and attentive and she’d felt good when he touched her. But that was all she felt, and when her eyes had fluttered shut as he’d lowered his mouth, she’d imagined another, softer face of a female she’d once known when she’d lived beneath the mountain.

Just friends. She would have sworn it even then. But deep, in her heart of hearts, Mor had known there had always been a little more on her end. She loved Cassian, but it wasn’t romantic—it was friendly. He’d tried coming around for a while after that, but took the hint when she refused to meet with him alone.

He wanted to discuss what happened. What it meant. Rhys must have explained the whole thing at some point. Her cousin knew, jaw clenched when she announced it to her uncle and her father, prepared for whatever consequences came next. 

She didn’t want to think about that. Not as she stood on the edge of the faerie realm, staring down the dull, human world she’d been cosigned to. The humans had queens, now, and she was sent as one of the ambassadors to help negotiate the end of the war. Victory wasn’t a certainty—Hybern’s forces had swept into Autumn the day before, scattering the royal family. If Mor was lucky, they’d at least take out Beron.

And Eris. Perhaps both, in one fell swoop, leaving the grieving widow and her brood of younglings to rebuild. If only. Likely, some other, more terrible lord would ascend to power given the transfer of magic in Prythian. Why did it always pick a male?

Rhys had once snapped at her that it didn’t always.

“The Mother picks who is worthiest. It’s not about gender, Mor.”

Then why was it always a male? 

She pushed the thought from her mind. The humans had queens. Queens. Six of them, if Rhys was to be believed—and she did. How barbaric and backward could they possibly be? Even with their budding, fragile society, the humans had managed to find six females of noble birth and elevated them into queens of their specific, new societies. 

The war still raged, and yet here, in these places, there was hope. Mor had never seen any of the human societies that existed beyond Prythian, had been told they were wastelands where humans lived no better than cattle, and sometimes worse. She’d heard a story at a party of humans who’d eliminate their waste where they stood and continue on as if it were the most normal thing in the world. They consumed their children, according to other stories. 

They needed the strong, steady hand of a more superior, smarter master—or, that was how her father told it. He didn’t want to be that master, but it was more practical than moral no matter how Rhys tried to dress it up.

Humans bred far easier, and more often than their fae counterparts. It was too hard to control so many of them. Rhys’ father had spent centuries in the attempt before he finally stopped bothering and freed his slaves. Rhys counted that as a win, and maybe it was. Maybe it was unfair to hold his bad reasons against the High Lord. At least he’d freed them—Spring hadn’t. 

But…Day Court had freed their slaves a full decade before, and allowed them sanctuary within their borders, making an enemy of many other courts. It had been a noble decision—Phobus argued passionately that humans were a shared ancestor and had inherent worth and dignity, despite their lack of immortality.

“There is nothing just or moral in long lives,” she’d heard him once say. She’d been no older than fifteen, but it had stuck with her and Rhys. He’d wanted to join the fighting, arguing with his father until he was sent to the front lines to die.

And Mor was sent as an emissary, presumably to get her away from Cassian and Azriel. Her father still held some sway with his brother, and Keir would be damned if his daughter interbred with Illyrians. Hate her as he might—the insult with Cassian had been nearly too much, but a marriage would send Keir over the edge.

She hadn’t seen Cassian in months. Azriel never left her uncle’s side, but Cassian was just gone, and sometimes, in the deepest, darkest held places in her soul, she was convinced she’d condemned the young warrior to death. 

Mor pushed the thought from her mind as another figure winnowed beside her, smelling faintly of vanilla and lime. It had been a compromise between the allied forces—no one trusted the Night Court, and Mor by association, so the Day Court had offered to send one of their famed scholars along. 

Mor had never met Arina in person, though they’d exchanged a few letters in preparation for the journey. While Mor was there to broker a treaty, Arina was there to chronicle the lives, culture, and society of the humans in an attempt to both better understand them and reshape the narrative around their existence.

Propaganda, Rhys had cynically called it.

Maybe a little propaganda was a good thing, if used by the right person. Arina certainly seemed unassuming, though if Phobus had sent her, it would be a mistake to totally underestimate her. It was tempting—the scholar was absurdly beautiful in a way anyone might appreciate, though Mor was certain males never would. Buttery blonde hair cascaded down her back, pulled into a rather polite knot at the nape of her graceful neck. Smooth, brown skin made the vivid green of her eyes seem starker by comparison, and though she wore a rather loose dress, it seemed to cling to the curves of her body the way water droplets did to blades of grass. 

And serious, given the slant of her pink mouth.

“It’s safe,” Mor rushed to assure her, wanting to, if nothing else, make a friend. She was surrounded by males all the time—one female friend wouldn’t be so bad.

“I’m not worried about that,” she replied without any malice to her words. Still, like Mor, she hesitated to take that step across the border. No matter how open-minded they claimed to be, all those old stories still lingered. No matter how many blades Mor wore, she, too, couldn’t bring herself to step across first.

The Day Court scholar offered up her palm, bag slung over her shoulder. “Together?” she suggested, that same frown etched over her features. 

Mor clapped her hand with Arina’s, grateful to not be alone even if they were strangers. “Together,” she agreed. 

Mor wondered if Arina, too, counted down from five in her head or if she simply waited for Mor. There was no tugging, no pulling her over that invisible boundary. One moment, their feet were planted in the lush, lovely grass of the faerie realm and the next the whole world seemed to blink out of color, turning a drab, miserable shade of gray. 

Looking over her shoulder, Mor couldn’t see a difference anywhere but in her mind's eye. There was merely a sea of swaying grass beneath a cloud covered sky. They’d been instructed not to winnow to the human palace, which meant the two females would need to walk to it.

It seemed the humans didn't trust them, either. Mor tried not to bristle over that—she’d been writing these nobles for months, now, while the High Lord of Night hovered over her shoulder demanding she phrase it just so.

They didn’t trust the males of Mor’s species. They’d wanted females, a shame given the Helion of the Day Court would have been far more astute company than the little slip of a woman keeping pace beside her. She came with a heavy recommendation from Helion, who was almost certainly doing something with her, given the way those golden eyes winked when he’d taken in Mor. 

Ugh.

Mor had heard stories of the humans, of course, and their brutish, backward ways. She held on to her belief they couldn’t be that brutish if they’d elevated their females, something the fae would never do willingly. Not collectively, anyway. Rhys might consider her his equal, but no one else around him did. Even Cassian and Azriel shifted from one leg to the other when Rhys asked Mor her opinion first, their annoyance swallowed and yet still felt. 

That didn’t mean these women had any real power, of course. Perhaps they were merely figure heads, controlled by men. That seemed unlikely to Morrigan, who had been around enough males and men to know they never missed an opportunity to claim power and credit, even if none of the accomplishments technically belonged to them. 

She and Arina remained silent for the walk, barely glancing at the other as they made their way forward. Grassland gave way to farmland, and then sporadic, small hamlets that became villages, that became towns, that eventually became a bustling city filled with the rounded ears that marked them human.

Many of them stopped in their tracks as she and Arina walked up the roads, their own eyes wide with a mixture of fear and distrust. There was no awe in their gaze—children hid behind their mothers skirts while men gripped whatever they held in their hands, prepared to use it like a weapon. 

Mor half wished Cassian had been allowed to escort them. She’d been instructed not to harm a human, even in self-defense. She supposed it benefited her father and uncle to have her here—either she succeeded, and they made valuable allies and absolved themselves of the atrocities they had willingly participated in, or she was torn to pieces and they were freed of her once and for all.

Beside her, Arina didn’t seem concerned at all. She offered tentative, shy smiles to those she passed, tucking her hair behind her ear so people could better see the long arch and the pointed tip. Children whispered among themselves, braver than their parents, especially as they neared the towering stone walls that guarded the city. 

Sentries stood post along the wall, their bow strings pulled tight, arrows notched. Mor swallowed, following Arina’s lead as she tried to banish any outward signs of fear. Could humans smell it? She didn’t think so, but also didn’t know. Didn’t want to test it and find herself buried in some shallow, unmarked grave. Mor’s eyes kept darting upward, though, her palms sweaty from nerves. 

She had no weapon save for her own training and inherent strength. It might be enough to push a few back, but if it came down to a numbers fight, Mor knew she couldn’t win. She’d need to rely on her own social graces and hope humans had similar customs. 

They were stopped at the gate, a crowd milling behind them. “Weapons?” a rough voiced guard asked, his brown eyes weathered at the corners. He, too, was looking at them other with that mix of curiosity and distrust, his sword gleaming in the gloomy light. 

“No weapons,” Arina said, offering him a toothless smile. Mor thought that was wise—no use letting them see those pointed canines and remind them of what the fae were capable of. 

“I need to check,” he told her, his voice wavering ever so slightly. Arina glanced over at Mor, swallowing as she nodded her head.

“Of course,” she agreed, though there was no mistaking how uneasy she was. Arina stood utterly still, which seemed to make the humans nervous, though Mor couldn’t understand why. They were careful with where they put their hands, respectful as they patted her down, feeling for daggers that might be concealed by her clothing.

Mor loathed when it was her turn. They didn’t make eye contact, and it was brief enough though not so brief she didn’t feel uncomfortable and a little nauseated. She didn’t want a strange man touching her.

Didn’t want any man touching her, if she was being honest with herself. She kept it to herself, grateful when the human guard nodded his head, indicating they could step into the walled off city. Unlike the outside, which seemed to be made up mainly of the farmers that helped sustain the overall population, inside was a bustling city that could have rivaled Velaris for scale, and Rhodes in terms of organization. 

Mor had expected a hovel or less. Filth and mud while humans lived in squalor and erected tents, their leaders planning while the rest were little better than servants. That's how it was being done back in Prythian during times of war or stress. There were clear hierarchies among them, just like back home but something felt different. 

More relaxed, she thought as she took in the lined rows of houses, painted in bright colors with matching shutters and steepled rooftops. The roads were laid with even cobblestones and though there were horses pulling carts through the throngs of city-goers, Mor didn’t smell the tell-tale scent of animal feces that she did so often in Prythian. How did they clean it, if not with magic, she wondered with no small amount of awe.

There were so many things she’d never seen before—vendors selling bolts of cloth in colors no fae wore, fabric she couldn’t name. Vegetables and fruits brightly colored, some spined or swollen, that she’d never tasted. Beads that glittered even in the gloom and flowers and meats and cheeses and a million other things she wanted to lose herself in. 

Mor’s steps started to slow, and might have stopped entirely had Arina not pressed two fingers into her elbow to keep her moving. How did the Day Court scholar resist temptation? The people in the city were just as curious, their chatter slowing and quietening as she and Arina passed with their guards—two at the front, and more at the back. Mor could sense their presence, though she didn’t dare turn around and look. 

Looming before them was more of a large estate than a castle or palace. It sprawled, much in a similar manner to the Forest House, those far newer and likely with less underground caverns—not that Mor had ever seen of them. She’d heard the Forest House stretched deep into the ground, though, and somehow didn’t think this palace did. Not to the same extent, anyway.

It seemed to be made of some kind of gleaming marble, with large, supporting columns and stairs that led from the city up to the main drive. 

There were no gates to keep people out, and only a handful of mostly ceremonial guards, armed with rapiers rather than heavy swords and bows. Their uniforms were crisp hues of blue and gold, with a fleur de lis emblazoned on the front. How did they manage to keep people out? Or did they just allow anyone to come strolling in, for any reason at all?

Mor made her way up the stairs, stomach tumbling nervously. Before that moment, coming to the human lands and meeting any of their royalty had been more conceptual in nature. It was real, now. They were here. Whatever happened, whatever came next, Mor was completely at the mercy of a species her kind had spent centuries enslaving. She almost laughed at the absurdity of it all—why should they listen to her? 

If it were the other way around, she knew her uncle wouldn’t. Still, this was diplomacy and Mor wanted to treat it with a delicate, gentle hand. It was better than being sent back to her fathers home and the punishment he’d devise just the moment no one was watching him again. If she could prove herself useful to her uncle, there would be a life for her outside of the Court of Nightmares, and more than anything, Mor wanted that. 

She felt like a child beside the far calmer Arina, who didn’t betray anything on that pretty face of hers. Mor kept glancing over as they stepped inside, waiting for her to react the way Mor felt. Her eyes didn’t even widen, fixed straight ahead as though this were normal. 

Focus on yourself, some inner voice ordered. 

The inside of the palace was busy, as one might expect, with servants that were allowed to be seen, alongside people bustling down this corridor or that. Mor could only guess their jobs given they all seemed to be dressed in similar fashion. There were more layers to the clothing here, more panels of fabric and boning that was visible, both for men and women.

Pants, too, which was frowned upon for females back home. Her father would have beaten her within an inch of her life. Her own dress conformed to her body like liquid, shifting and moving so you never lost sight of what Mor looked like. There were no layers to it, just the fabric it had been constructed with, with no need for the heavy structure or boning the humans employed thanks to whatever magic was woven into the threads. 

She felt exposed, though, with her sheer sleeves and dipping neckline. As they walked, she noted it wasn’t the men who looked at her with surprise and, perhaps, condemnation, but the human women. Their eyes would fall on her face before traveling toward her neck and then to her feet before snapping back to her face. Sometimes, Mor thought she saw pity there, though why they might pity her, she couldn’t begin to guess. 

Mor rather liked the openness of the palace. There were windows everywhere, thrown open to allow a gentle breeze to flow through. Without magic to regulate the temperature, the materials were chosen carefully to keep the chill or stifling heat from overwhelming the people who lived within the walls. 

She could marvel over engineering later. She, along with Arina and their guards, climbed a winding set of stairs to where the newly minted queen sat. It was the only time Arina gave any reaction at all, though it wasn’t to the queen itself but the embroidered tapestries that hung over the grand halls walls, depicting scenes of humans slaughtering their faerie slavers in rather excruciating detail. Arina betrayed no fear—only awe, though if it was the craftsmanship or the battles portrayed, Mor couldn’t say.

Sitting atop the throne was a rather young women—lovely, Mor thought, in that human way of theirs. Mortality made any beauty humans had seemed aching—fleeting. All the more beautiful for the shortness of their lives, the brevity of their youth. 

Mor guessed her age around thirty—maybe a little younger, but not much older. Her dark hair was half braided from her face, the rest falling in tight curls around her shoulders. The woman’s skin was a dark brown, unmarred by disease, offset by eyes so dark they seemed almost black. Gold jewelry adorned her throat and wrists while a matching diadem, inlaid with sparkling lapis lazuli gleamed atop her head. 

Arina dropped into an easy curtsey, reminding Mor that she, too, ought to show her respect. She’d been staring at the teardrop earrings, the rings that adorned long fingers, and the rich cobalt dress the woman wore. She oozed royalty, and yet the lines etched just around the corners of her kohl rimmed eyes told Mor she had endured suffering that was unimaginable. 

She didn’t rise from her throne, set at the far end of the room. Stained glass windows just behind her threw a rainbow of color across the raised platform, making this woman seem almost divine. How had they chosen her, and where had they found her? Mor didn’t think any human remembered their old lineages, their nobility that the fae had so thoroughly erased.

No, these were new families, made royal by measures Mor didn’t think she’d be privy to. 

“I’m surprised you arrived,” the queen said once Mor and Arina straightened themselves back up. “Your…High Lords, is it?”

“High Lords, yes,” Arina murmured, eyes glittering with suspicious amusement.

The queen nodded. “How quickly one forgets. They balked when I said we would only accept women into our court.”

Mor wanted to ask why—the queen seemed to expect her to, given the way her head cocked to the side, lips parting with an answer to an obvious question. Mor chose not to—why reveal how naive she was so early into their meeting.

“We’re grateful to be here,” she said instead, hoping she sounded sincere. She was glad to be there, to be useful in some small way, and to be far away from the family who just barely tolerated her. 

“You’re not, but you will be,” she replied, finally rising from her chair just as the doors behind them opened. A younger woman—a few years older than Mor, perhaps, but not by much, strode into the room. Mor’s breath caught when she saw her, adorned in a gold beaded, lilac dress. Her own dark hair hung in loose curls around her face, and rather than the onyx eyes of the queen, this woman had hazel eyes, more gold and brown than green. 

She halted when she realized what she’d stepped into, eyes bouncing from Mor to Arina. “Sister, I…”

“Emerie,” the queen murmured with a softened voice. “Our emissaries from the west have arrived.”

Emerie’s gaze hardened, those eyes landing on the tell-tale arched ears sticking from Mor and Arina’s head.

“How long are they here for, Andromeda?” Emerie demanded, crossing her arms across her chest. Mor was too enamored to be offended—Emerie was the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen in her entire life. Want bloomed through her, stronger than anything she’d ever felt in her life—a pull to touch her, instinct long dominant, now alive and writhing in her veins. Mor caught the scent of her, cool like the air blowing snow across the mountains in Illyria. 

Emerie looked like home. 

“Until freedom is secured, I hope,” Andromeda replied, gracefully crossing the floor to greet her younger sister. 

Emerie turned to look at them, eyes narrowed with that same distrust. “Hostages?”

“Emissaries,” Andromeda corrected, brushing a strand of hair from her sister's forehead with affection. 

“We’ve come in the name of peace,” Arina added, offering a pretty smile. Emerie didn’t react.

“Your kind doesn’t know the meaning of the word,” she retorted as her sister shushed her without anger. 

Mor’s eyes locked with Emeries—what horrors had Emerie witnessed? The same as Mor? Worse? She opened her mouth to disagree, but found she couldn’t. She still bore the scars, after all, of her father’s nails. Right then, Mor could feel the hands on her body as they’d held her writhing, screaming body down so he could nail that note into her body.

She could still see Eris’s sneering, horrible face as he left her where she was. 

Mor offered Emerie a slight nod of agreement, which seemed to pacify the woman, if only a little. Some flash of understanding seemed to cross Emerie’s expression, even if her gaze didn’t soften. That was enough for Mor, who wanted to talk to her, though for the life of Mor, she had no clue what she’d even say.

It didn’t matter. Emerie was shooed away, chased off by a few giggling ladies in waiting in equally pretty, rustling gowns that seemed to eat away at the silence. Mor tried—and failed—not to watch her leave. She was there to prove herself and do a job—nothing more.

And yet.

And yet.

[hiding-under-the-willow]

obsessed with ancient/stone age human culture (would have gone on to study it if life hadnt gotten in the way) and so your ghosts au bdubs has me chomping at the bit. what a brilliant and wonderful choice. i dont have a lot of coherent thoughts rn but i love love love the tags in the og post of your recent fanart of him and i hope to see more of him and i love to turn him around in my brain. & wanted to tell you that.

i also think sometimes about how long he spent alone in death before any of the other ghosts joined him and oh, my goodness. how, uh,, how do you think he's doing?

Ghosts AU Bdubs is so interesting to me bc I came in at the beginning mostly just basing him on the portrayal of Robin from the show, which I knew wasn't entirely historically accurate in the first place so I would probably want to go more in depth with him at some point, but I just hadn't taken the time to do the research necessary to actually go through with that development, and then this semester half of my classes these last few weeks have been discussing Paleolithic and Neolithic people and art and something just snapped in my brain and I was like. Ah. Okay. The potential there is crazy actually. So there'll definitely be more of him!! I'm like half using him as an excuse to explore the stuff I learned in my classes more in depth and half using the fact that I learned about this stuff in my classes as an excuse to finally go through and develop him the way I wanted. Symbiotic relationship or whatever.

Also yeah, that long ass gap of time where he was the only ghost around certainly has been bouncing around in my head a bit. I don't have. completely coherent thoughts about it at the moment. I certainly think he might've coped in similar ways to the way Robin does in the show, getting attached to the people living on the property, spending a lot of his time learning from them and talking to them even if they don't realize he's there. I think he probably would've been a much more serious figure in life, and also in the early days of his afterlife (I mean not completely, it's still Bdubs we're talking about lol, but still), that spending all that time alone might've unraveled him a bit. I feel like it's hard to get a definitive grip on like. Who he is. Some days he's kind of obsessive and neurotic, in everyone's business, easily worked up, other days he seems perfectly content to ignore the happenings of the house, just do his own thing out on the property. I feel like most of the other ghosts wouldn't know much about his life, or even his early afterlife, he doesn't talk about it much and when he does it's always some crazy one-off anecdote that doesn't let you in on much of what was actually happening at the time. I think, like Robin in the show, he probably has his moments of like complex emotional or social intelligence that seem kind of out of nowhere from an outside perspective until you think about how long he's been around to have observed and learned about the world, about people.

[ameliaegschulz]

Veno listened to the victors discuss amongst themselves, still perplexed by them not putting it together that "Terran" was another word for "Earthling." Or "human" in this case. They got that "pet experiment" part right, at least. ...Milk? What was the leader talking about with that o--

...right. Fairies.

He simply nodded to answer the leader's question about the "rebranding" of Earth.

"So what now? Avenge your fellow Terrans?" asked the leader, to which he looked over his shoulder for a moment at what was left of the city.

"Or try to find a way back to your... time?"

"Hmph. As if I had any "fellow Terrans" worth avenging."

"Imagine it. A project ten years in planning and ten years in the making. Stripping me of any chance at a normal life with the sole purpose of molding me into the perfect soldier. And they only send me on what, three real missions in five years? If that? What a waste."

He heaved a gritty sigh. Clementia's comment caught his attention. He had the faintest of half grins on his face.

"I am lucky. You're right about that. You three have been the best thing to happen to me since my last mission. I thought I'd never find another fight like that for at least another decade. And with other soldiers, no less." He eyed Clementia with that last comment. "Damn shame you're not immortals. Would've been nice to not hold back."

With a heavy thud, he fell back into his hole in the road courtesy of the leader.

"Oh well. I'm in no position to bargain. You can just leave me here. I'll pull myself out of this crater eventually."

"Hm. So you can speak after all, and not just grunt in battle. Good."

Their leader tilted her head slightly, eyeing the man curiously. Strange fellow, this man.

"This man... He's probably running around some base in Antartica one moment, and then... well, he's here. And fromw hat he's saying, it sounds like he triggered some kind of time travel."

"... Most likely some sort of pet experiment."

"... By this group named 'UTAF', yes... and..."

"Something related with Milk."

"... *sigh*"

The more Clementia hears about this, the less sense it makes. Was she supposed to accept that there's this time traveler all of the sudden...?

She wants to ask what happens in the future, but... she doesn't feel like it. No point conversing with the enemy, after all.

"Anyways, we don't know what a 'Terran' is, but yes, this is Earth. Based on what you're saying, I assume it's been rebranded as 'Terra' in your time?"

"... But you're right. The three of us... Well, four." Poor Helia, she must have been done respawning by now. "... are the ones who torched this city. It's our job."

"So what now? Avenge your fellow Terrans? Or try to find a way back to your... time?"

it's a bit hard to wrap her head around with all this, she must admit, but there's lots of things she doesn't know, even when she told him regarding his circumstance.

UTAF... Terra... She'd like to know how to replicate his tech, but it doesn't seem possible either.

And as for the other blonde...

"......"

"Clementia wants to say that we could at least guide you somewhere to rest and get your bearings."

"You..."

Clementia wanted to speak, but cut herself off.

This woman, really...

"... We're not running a charity, and our orders were supposed to kill all survivors. Consider yourself lucky, alien."

"... You're a terrible liar."

[twilight-deviant]

[Avengers Academy: Marvel's Voices Infinity Comic (2024) #29]

The holidays are over and the darkest days of winter are upon us. The newly human Blackheart wrestles with the sins of his father – and those of his own. Guest-starring Daredevil!

Do I... ship Matt/Blackheart now...? 🖤

[marenwithanm]

I don't wanna come off as a jerk here, but I really dislike Quaver. Not her design, but her personality. I really hate it when people use Undertale Yellow's version of Integrity as their headcannon for the Integrity soul. Yes, Integrity did kill some monsters, but she only killed them in self-defense. Also, the monsters attacked Integrity first and she had every right to defend herself since they were after her soul. Like I said before, I don't hate Quaver, I just really hate how most people see the Integrity soul as a heartless and evil girl when that isn't the case at all.

Hey fair enough. And to be clear, Quaver's not evil. She killed a lot of monsters but they were trying to kill her so ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯ I mean, she already had a standing hatred of monsters before she fell, but who knows, maybe if they didn't attack her first, she could've learned to overcome that and get along with them. Having the integrity soul be the most violent isn't what I would've initially chosen either, but like I said before, my human souls are all essentially a reaction to Clover, so I gotta work with what's there in undertale yellow canon. Still, I don't think that undertale yellow was trying to imply integrity as being evil either. The monsters definitely see her that way, with how they talk about the "snowdin incident", but it's a nuanced issue. To the monsters, humans are evil and they keep proving that by killing more monsters as they fall down. To the human souls, the monsters are evil as they keep attacking them just for existing. Our information about integrity in the world of undertale yellow is told to us entirely from the monsters point of view, therefore it's presented in a way that shows her in the worst possible light. That doesn't necessarily mean that the monsters are right about her.

So yeah I don't think integrity is meant to be evil in the world of undertale yellow, and she's definitely not evil in my interpretation of her as Quaver. She's a scared, angry kid who just had all her preconceived notions about monsters proven true when they attacked her after falling down. Of course she goes on the offensive. Whether or not she's right to do that is a matter of nuance and debate, but I digress

[equalperson]

I fucking hate being traumatized because why am I bawling the hardest I've bawled in god-knows-how-long because someone I didn't even like that much berated Me. gasping wailing trembling and snotting over this for several minutes.

[mad-hunts]

barton being awkward at first or even completely throughout a whole interaction whenever he's trying to comfort people is so in character for him TBH and let me tell y'all why because i think it's important to his character:

he can fake a lot of things. barton can fake being nice to people, he can fake being innocent, and he can even fake having a much stronger sense of morality around people if he wants to — but whenever it comes to empathizing with someone on an emotional level... barton finds himself often struggling with faking it because of the nature of it. and this is due to it being different than whenever he's trying to feign something easily comprehensible like innocence. but empathy is something that's usually viewed as innate in us as humans and has to do with love, which doesn't depend on logic. it's something that comes from within, so it doesn't have clear parameters as to how you should do it, so whenever barton tries to fake it in the event that he's trying to make someone feel better; he'll stumble. and so although barton can cognitively empathize with someone, his efforts to actually put himself in other people's shoes fall flat, as he just can't physically imagine himself being in someone else's position probably more than half the time.

so if your muse were to ever come to him seeming upset, barton would likely not know what to do / how to comfort them, at least for a bit before referencing back on how he's seen other people do it. because i hate to say it (i don't, in reality, but y'all know what i mean LOL) but barton does actively mimic behaviors that he sees people do whenever he feels the absence of a certain emotion. he especially does this whenever he's trying to appear charming to other people, but like i said, he'll also try to use what he's seen his peers do as a guide as for what he should do in regards to empathy. and sometimes he may even seem a bit flustered before he's able to do this because he knows that it is expected of him to be able to empathize with people and can identify it in other people BUT knowing how to approach faking it has always been sort of hard for him even as an adult.

but yeahhh, that's just my own two cents about how barton sometimes break character that he is quote unquote ' normal, ' though he does try to mask this around people who aren't really familiar with him as simply being social awkwardness. however, it is part of a larger thing with him as despite the fact that he can blend in with the population REALLY well and also is pretty good at manipulating others, i suppose you could say that barton is still not an expert at ' constructing empathy ' because whenever someone is visibly hurt in front of him... he is more liable to act like he isn't sure what to do, than to put on an act immediately since he is likely to feel nothing first before anything else. and i realize that that is a rather unsettling thought, but i think that he is a lot more suspectible to doing this with people he doesn't know well / who he isn't particularly close to, as he's got a lot more practice with being falsely empathetic towards friends and/or sometimes even family members.

[a-cat-in-toffee]

coughs violently. hello chatters.

[rexinvicta]

((Mmhm, yeah, this is definitely a T-rated game for sure-))

[cultivating-wildflowers]

my brother today: so, uh...what's the word on that crochet basket my wife asked you about? she's started her nesting phase...

me, looking between said basket and the blisters on my hands: it's coming along great! it'll absolutely be done in time for Mom to deliver it!

[bumblingbabooshka]

-Remembers how T’Pring looked as she watched Spock & Chapel vanish into the bathroom together after seeing them kiss on the bridge (which she knew was for a mission and didn’t hold against them but perhaps she could sense something there since they do have feelings for one another), maybe attempting to calm herself and her suspicions as she’s left alone again (and later finds she’s been left out entirely this whole time) and how she doesn’t know that Spock almost told Chapel he loved her then and there, with T’Pring in the other room waiting, and how Amanda and Sevet both think she could have more confidence in herself and how T’Pring thought that she and Spock were in this together (her holding his hand, subtly letting him know to pour slower so the tea flowers would bloom correctly, a whispered ‘well done’, the ritual is over mother) and how mere hours after she expresses to Spock how she feels: Like he doesn’t trust her, like he doesn’t care to include her in his life, how she’s trying her best to show him that she will accept him wholly, how she wants to be his partner instead of an adversary or an obstacle, after all this he’s found Chapel within the hour and is kissing her.-

[meirimerens]

you know i must have been bone-tired when this part of the herb brides lore didn't come to my mind when i discussed how the Kin fundamentally differs from the cultures it is inspired by um There Is The Human Sacrifice part. like it's an important part of pathologic 2 that you are doing human, or anthropomorphic (if you want to see the Herb Brides as closer to spirits, which comes with its own set of problematics regarding how to approach their oppression) sacrifice. it's an important part of pathologic 2 that you kill a woman, as part of the journey and in direct resonance with you ritualistically killing cattle earlier, and she offers herself to you with cultural and religious significance.

human sacrifices have been done across the globe for millennia, but i cannot, for the life of me, find any source at all that mentions the Buryats (since that was the discussion point) partaking in human sacrifices by the turn of the 19th-early 20th century (or even anything past the 16th). every single source mentioning offerings and sacrifices i've read mentions animals, things such as milk and vodka, and often both at once. would love to read anything about these rituals if papers exist, but i'm personally drawing a blank.

the Kin has Obvious and very Visible influences but it also differs from specific (in this discussion's case, the Buryats) or wider (here, turkic/mongolic as a whole) cultures from the area by so many pieces, big and small, that i wouldn't have enough appendages on my whole body to count them all. and sister. i have plenty of appendages.

[beauty-grace-outer-space]

Didn't even make it til 10AM without sobbing at my desk this time.

[kingdomoftyto]

October this year has felt kind of vague and adrift for me, no real festive spirit to speak of--or at least nowhere near how last year felt, when it was Year of the Vampire and all.

BUT I am remedying that now with a combined pincer attack of 1) relistening to Night Vale from the beginning on my commute to work and 2) rereading Warm Bodies on my breaks/in my spare time. Things are getting increasingly spooky up in here

[trans-leek-cookie]

someone talking about the ways media and common tropes/depictions of things that are either explicitly or implicitly linked to marginalized people are demonized and presented badly is not a fucking opportunity for you to flex how you're doing it Differently And Better