#messing with his memories

[truefandemonium]

Welp I’m back and so is Bill

Please enjoy the drabble <3

a mind ensnared pt.2

a billstill ficlet

(inspired by the AU by @jellynut)

TW: self harm

…

It hurt like hell. And Stanley knew hell.

Hell was the lifetime he spent wishing he hadn’t hurt Ford. The lifetime he wasted running from the family he should have made amends with.

The lifetime he could no longer recall most of.

Ford was easing him back into reconnecting with his past— both of theirs. He shared stories they’d experienced as kids in Jersey… the good times they’d shared in high school… moments in between where they didn’t hate each other’s guts.

But it hurt.

Stan pressed his palms against his eyes with a low groan. “I’m sicka this.”

“Stanley, we can stop,” Ford said calmly. “This is for you, remember.”

“Remember. Right,” Stan scoffed. His attitude had plummeted in the last half hour since his headache had grown from a dull ache to a sharp throbbing in his right temple.

Ford rolled his eyes, shutting the scrapbook and shoving it back into the small shelf inside the interior of the boat. The name of the author was scrawled in glitter gel pen on the inside: MABLE PINES. “We can revisit it later,” Ford said, keeping his tone level.

Stan hated him for always being reasonable and kind despite his own short temper. Who gave him the right to be so forgiving?

Sure as blue skies wasn’t me! If anything, I helped him find his fiery side— Ol’ Fordsy never would have hurt you before I came along…

Ford never hurt me. This was never his fault, no matter how much I want to believe it was. Stan shifted to look at his feet, hiding his gaze. He didn’t know if Ford could see it; the way his eyes changed when Bill spoke. Maybe no one could see it… but Stan felt it. It clawed at the back of his brain like long tendrils of flame, licking until they could reach the glassy surface of his eyes, where they’d stare out.

Oh really?

Stan could practically see that damned Triangle grinning now.

Remember this?

Fire. This time, not just behind his eyes. It ate away at the flesh of his back, just at his wing, where the deep burn scar remained. Lately, Stan would run his fingers over the grooves in his flesh, as if he could pry the memory out of his skin, desperate to recall the moment in which he gained the scar.

But now he didn’t need anything to evoke it. It all came back like a tidal wave, floodgates opened and ready to drown him in the deep waters of his own mind.

Stan pushed himself up from the table, his chair clattering to the floor behind him as he reeled. The pain made him dizzy, and Ford’s brow furrowed deep as he looked up at him in concern.

“Alright, Stanley?”

“Headache,” Stan barked.

So worried for you. How sweet. Brotherly love is such a wonderful thing, isn’t it? Why don’t you go ahead and ask Sixer about that scar, Mystery Man?

Flashes of memory threatened to knock Stan to the floor. The deep pain of the burn on his back. The cold of the earth as he fell to his side in agony. A distant cry of, “Stanley… I’m so sorry…”

But why? Why had Ford burned him? Why had they been fighting at all?

ASK HIM.

“Stanley, are you sure you’re alright?” Ford stood, his chair creaking as he pushed it back and stepped around the table toward his brother. “You look—”

“I’m fine!” Stan snapped, grabbing Ford’s collar and holding him at arm’s length to stop him from getting closer. Stan looked up and glared into the soft eyes staring back, his grip tightening.

You’ll never know if you don’t ASK.

“I don’t need to,” Stan whispered, the words falling from his lips against his will.

Ford’s eyes flashed fearfully. “What?”

Panic suddenly gripped Stanley— the man shoved his brother back and growled, “I said I don’t need you. This stupid memory thing isn’t helping me— and neither are you.”

“Stanley, you don’t need to—” Ford lifted his hand and Stan stepped back again.

“Just leave it alone! Leave me alone, and stop trying to help,” Stan ground out, clenching his fists at his sides and pivoting to leave the underbelly of the ship.

Ford yelled something else as Stan left, but he didn’t turn around. The screaming inside his head was too loud to think— to breathe.

On a fishing boat in the middle of the ocean, there weren't exactly many places to isolate oneself. Still, Stan managed to find solace in the crow’s nest. Cold wind buffeted his hair as he tried and failed to catch his breath, chest hammering as Bill raked at the inside of Stan’s skull.

YOU IDIOT

NOW YOU’LL NEVER KNOW WHY FORD GAVE YOU THAT SCAR— YOU’LL NEVER REMEMBER WHAT YOU SAID TO HIM TO MAKE HIM SNAP—

“Shut up, shut up,” Stan seethed, his hands coming up to frame his head, closing his eyes. “I don’t want to know, you stupid triangle. I don’t want to remember…” Stan shook his head, voice dissolving into a whimper. “I don’t want to remember him at all.”

It was the thing that was killing him; the memory of how he’d betrayed Ford at every turn, destroyed his chance at happiness. And Bill wouldn’t stop reminding him of all of it.

“I just wanna forget everything,” Stan hissed into the wind, the breeze taking his words and tossing them to the sea. “Just for a minute…”

For the first time in a long time, there was silence. And then,

I can make that happen.

All at once, Stan felt his body heat. Not the fiery pain of the past, but a gentle warmth like the rays of the sun beating down on him. He opened his eyes and inhaled a sharp, small gasp.

He was sitting in the crow’s nest of the original Stan ‘O’ War on Glass Shard Beach, the hot summer sun baking the wooden boat as it sat on the shore. Stan stood cautiously, raking his eyes over his surroundings.

He was looking for something. Some one. Yet he couldn’t manage to remember who. The memory felt blurry in his mind, like a permanent marker had been scrawled across the image— the thick, choking fumes of the ink making Stan’s vision cloudy and head swim.

And yet he welcomed it. The sensation of not remembering… it was as peaceful as it was oddly painful.

But something was tugging him— calling him. Stan pushed off from the wooden nest and crawled down the rickety wooden slats that served as steps to the main deck, then jumped down to reach the shore.

Normally a leap like that would knock him to his knees— and it almost did— but the pain in his joints seemed to have vanished. He felt like… like a kid again.

A sudden breath of excited air filled Stanley’s lungs as he straightened and examined the terrain. Sure enough, everything was as it was in his childhood. Every stone, every tree— every glass shard.

Except the presence of that unknown entity clawing at the inside of Stan’s mind.

As he wandered the beach, Stan’s anxiety grew, soon overwhelming the joy he’d felt at being back home. Until he saw it.

Saw him.

A faceless figure he knew so well. Part of him knew, anyway.

No name would lend itself to Stan as he raced forward, one hand extended into the air in greeting.

The faceless man sat placidly on a near broken down swing set, rocking forward and back in gentle motions.

Stan’s heart pounded as he got a good look at his face. Or rather, the emptiness that was there. His hands, too— his whole body seemed to flicker with obscuring yellow light. Light that shone so brightly Stan had to back up several steps.

But then it dimmed, and somehow, that was so much worse.

Before Stan stood a stranger. A stranger he’d grown up with, a stranger he loved. A stranger who had done so much for him and he did nothing in return.

“Hey, uh—” Stan started, his eyes trying to focus on the ever changing clawed out space that the man should reside in. “Who are you? This place is— this is Jersey, isn’t it?”

The stranger turned, his face a shroud of scribbled yellow that flickered with his movement.

Then, a sharp, loud, incessant static began to pour from him. No words, just agitated sounds in a garbled mess.

The sounds welled until Stan couldn’t take it anymore. He slammed his hands over his ears and cried, “I’m looking for—”

And then he stopped. Because… who was he looking for? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember.

You wanted to forget. A grinning, gleaming flash of yellow appeared beside Stan. The single eye of the floating angular shape glinted with malice. So now he’s gone. Enjoy the spotlight, Stanley.

No, no, no no no no. Who did he forget? Who had Bill taken from him? And just when he was starting to remember—

But remember what? Even now, the memories were starting to fade. The image of the beach around him started to feel fuzzy in Stan’s mind. Everything but the glimmering shards of sun soaked glass that protruded from every corner of the beach.

The pain in Stan’s head, too, was beginning to grow. The aching that came with trying to uncover lost memories, the splintering sensation as the static noise penetrated his skull.

The sadness he felt when he looked into the space of the stranger’s face where his eyes should be.

The sound of glass shattering seemed to break him. Scrambling through the warm sand below his feet, Stan searched until he frantically pulled a shard of sharpened glass from the dirt.

Without hesitation, he lunged for the stranger, pressing the glass hard against his obscured throat. Stan felt the soft, kind hands of this unseeable man land on his shoulders. Confused. Comforting.

“Who are you?” Stan wailed. “I’m looking for someone! I— I can’t do this without him…”

Heaving for air, breath coming in short bursts as his heart hammered in his chest, Stan bleakly lifted the glass to his face and peered at it, retreating from the stranger.

Back then, he had terrible eyesight. He just never told anyone. He didn’t get glasses until he was in his late thirties and even then he hardly wore them. He didn’t feel like he deserved them. But his— someone— had loaned their own to Stanley. As a child, he borrowed someone’s glasses. Someone he looked up to and treasured and—

Fuck, the pain of forgetting was too much. It was like fire burning down the carefully crafted buildings inside his head. And the smoke was filling up his skull.

Maybe he could relieve the pressure. Clear the smoke and put the fire out.

Remember.

Ever so carefully, Stan placed the point of the glass shard against his right temple, and pressed. The pain was nothing compared to the sounds of agony his own brain was creating in this moment. The glass pierced his skin, drawing dark blood as Stan dragged the edge from his temple toward his eye.

Maybe he’d see better with just one eye.

STANLEY.

A horrible sound rang out. A mix of Bill’s voice and… someone else. As the rest of Jersey fell away, only the figure of the stranger remained: grabbing Stan’s shoulders and shaking him hard.

All at once, Stan’s eyes flew open. He was huddled on the floor of the ship, down below, one eye filling rapidly with blood from the long slice along the side of his head. Hand planted on the ground before him as he gasped and dropped the glass from his other.

“Stanley!”

That voice. Stan spun his body, revelling in the feeling of a familiar six fingered grasp on his shoulders.

And his own face staring back at him. For the first time in a long time, Stanley couldn’t get the words out. Until finally, “Stanford.”

Ford grabbed his brother and yanked him into a tight hug, his breathing frantic and horrified. “Stanley— oh for God’s sake, Stanley— I thought you were— it was like he had— but your eyes— oh thank goodness—” Ford’s rambling soothed Stanley.

His brother. He’d been looking for his brother all this time. And Bill had taken him.

Stan pulled away from the hug and slammed his fists into his brother’s chest, startling him into a sharp gasp. “Stanley, what are you—” he started, wondering and fearful.

The memories came back, finally, finally. The fight. That terrible moment when everything changed.

“You left me behind, you jerk! It was supposed to be us forever.”

And then the ever present searing pain in the flesh of Stanley’s right shoulder. Ford didn’t mean it. He didn’t mean any of it.

But he’d left him. And now he was back.

Stan rasped out, “Don’t ever leave me.”

“You ruined my life.”

Ford’s brows knitted over his eyes. “Stanley, you’re my brother,” he said gently. “We’re in this together.”

“You ruined your own life.”

“Forever,” Stan wheezed. Even through the dripping blood, and slowly darkening vision, Ford’s face was so clear now.

And Stan decided he would take the pain of remembering over the hell of forgetting. Always.

Forever.

[valictini]

I’ve already said it, I’ll say it again, Mal du Pays is such a visceral and clever word to describe Siffrin’s Sadness. When I first saw it in game it genuinely made me pause like. Yes, it translates to homesickness. But it has the literal word for country in it. “Country sickness”. For a guy whose core problem is that his childhood, his culture, his country is missing. One could argue it’s a twisted pun. I’m obsessed with it.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Not beating the allegations.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[helloilikepurple]

DC X DP - DeAged

The Nasty Burger explosion took a lot from Danny.

Stopping Dan meant nothing when Danny lost everything. His friends, his parents, his sister, his teacher - all gone. Danny, desperate to not become Dan, fled. He would not let Vlad destroy the only thing he had left; himself. He didn't turn human again if he could avoid it. Let Danny Fenton die with his family.

He did what he could, trying to keep it all together. Avoid Vlad. Catch havoc-wreaking ghosts. Try to not have a panic attack every time he saw his reflection. FentonWorks became out-of-bounds. No one was sure how to turn off the portal or any of the house's defence mechanisms so it was taped up instead.

Danny kept the GIW away. They wanted his parents' research, even if they had to bend the law to get it. Danny would not let them have it. Never.

But the GIW was persistent and Danny weak from nearly two months of being Phantom and nothing else. He was so tired. Tired from grieving, from fighting, from wandering around, completely lost and alone.

The GIW got a lucky shot in. Danny went down. He woke up, still ghost, somewhere white. He'd trained himself not to have to turn back. He was grateful he did.

The GIW studied him. Danny did not have the energy to fight back. The will to survive. Curled up in his cell, bloody and becoming less human with every passing day, Clockwork finally intervened.

He could not let the future High King wither away into nothing.

With Nocturn's help, he whisked him away. His world was dying anyway. With no one to maintain the portal, it would soon overload and explode. The radiation would kill all life on Earth, leaving nothing behind, and taking with it the potential for new life. One world among infinite realities meant nothing. But Danny, as High King, is a singularity. A unique existence, only found in one reality. Clockwork, for the sake of everything that lives and dies, could not let Danny fade away.

Danny slept at the Far Frozen, dreaming of his family, his friends, and the stars he would one day rule over. He healed, wounds knitting together into scars and fractured core slowly, ever so slowly, repairing itself. A future Ancient, bound to protect all that is and will be, was bound to be very badly hurt from such a loss.

Clockwork only wished he could have done more, but to remove Danny too early would have spelt disaster worse than the deaths of billions. This boy would someday be someone he'd proudly call his grandson. Seeing that future alone was enough to make his own core ache for the young one.

The Infinite Realms wept for its child, still but a babe yet having suffered so much. It embraced its future King, blessing him with its loyalty and adoration. The ghosts of the realms, spread far and wide over distant realities, timelines and worlds, felt the loss too.

Danny healed, unaware of how loved and precious he was to so many - how far he was from alone. The dead's sudden quiet unsettled many. Enemies froze in the silent mourning, animosity forgotten. Raging wars came to abrupt ends. So many, unable to bear the ever-reaching, unidentifiable pain in the air killed themselves. Good, kind people cried alone.

Magic users, like Constantine and Zatanna, hid, waiting out the Infinite Realm's despair for its child. No one spoke of it, for fear of disrespecting the dimension between dimensions. But they hid, and they waited, and they couldn't help but worry for themselves and everything and everyone else.

Danny got a lot of visitors. Ancients, regular ghosts, crowded around his bed, gifting him blessings and support. Danny slept, he healed, and his world died, taking with it all he'd known. He wouldn't remember or know of any of this when he woke  - even the memories of his pleasant dreams will have left him. He'll awaken and think himself entirely alone.

But he'll know, someday.

Clockwork will make sure of it.

---

Danny doesn't know where he is or who he is.

He has a vague idea. His name. His life and his death. But so much is so distant, like impressions on sand, washed away by the ocean. He knows he should be bigger. He knows this isn't home. He knows there is no home anymore.

He knows there are people he misses, but he doesn't know who they are or where they've gone. He knows so little yet so much. White walls and orange hair, green (toxic, writhing green) and hazmat suits, white and black and orange and blue. Expensive, Packers-branded cologne, burning flesh, the scream of an alarm and laughter and fear and hope and love and pain and loss. Disjointed flashes, snippets of another life.

And this isn't familiar - this city and these people. These crowded, filthy streets aren't home, but there's no home anymore so of course they aren't. And maybe Danny should be afraid. He doesn't know where he is, or how he got here. There are people, so tall, walking around him not sparing him a glance. It's loud and smelly and so much to process all at once.

But Danny doesn't care because he's so tired, and he wants nothing more than to curl up in bed and sleep the day away. But he doesn't have a home, so obviously he doesn't have a bed either. He looks around for somewhere else to sleep, rubbing at his chest subconsciously as he does.

There, a building, on the other side of the road. The windows are tinted, but the doors open and Danny, through the crowds and passing traffic, catches a glimpse of what has to be a couch. Maybe the people that own the building will let him sleep on their couch for a little bit.

So he crosses the street, sticking close to the legs of some lady with skinny heels that go tap-tap-tap so the cars don't go because they can't see him. The lady turns to go a different way after but it's okay because Danny is in front of the building now.

He pushes the door open and slips inside. It's quieter inside, and warmer. Danny wasn't cold outside but in here there's a nice heat that makes him feel even sleepier. He looks around at the fancy chairs and potted plants and lights, and is happy to see there are couches. Long couches, with lots of pillows and space for him to spread out.

He walks up to the desk. He's too short to see over it, and it makes him kind of angry because he's sure he's supposed to be taller. But he figures maybe he remembers wrong because people don't just shrink. Except, he's a halfa so maybe ghosts do?

"Hello?"

There's a lady here too, behind the desk, but unlike the one he followed across the street she has short, curly hair. Danny wonders if she's wearing skinny heels too. Leaning his head back, he can see her look up, glance around, and then look back down.

Danny pouts. Did she not see him?

"Hello?"

He waves an arm this time, reaching as high as he can to catch her attention. She finally sees him, eyes widening in surprise. "Oh, sorry! Hello." She has a nice voice.

"Your voice is pretty."

She smiles, and Danny decides her smile is nice too. "Why thank you. You have a pretty voice too. Is there something I can help you with?"

"Can I please sleep on your couch? Just for a little bit."

"Of course you can. Would you like a blanket? I could fetch one for you from the staff room."

Danny shakes his head. "I'm okay. Thank you."

"Alright. But if you change your mind, do tell me."

"You're very nice."

"Thank you, but it's really no problem. Not much to do today anyway."

"You should sleep too then. Sleep is good."

She giggles. "That is a very good idea. I just might take your advice." Danny nods. He has lots of good ideas. "Okay. I'm gonna' go nap now. Bye-bye."

"Sleep well."

There are a few couches, and for a bit Danny's not sure which one to sleep on. He chooses the one with the most pillows. It's very comfy, and the pillows are nice too. He puts one under his head and hugs another, curling up around it. He falls asleep in seconds.

-

When a toddler with black and blue eyes asked to sleep on one of the couches on in the reception hall of Wayne enterprises, May had assumed he was one of Bruce's boys. He certainly fit the type Gotham's favourite playboy liked to adopt, and it wasn't unusual for his wards to show up out of the blue.

Once she found Tim Drake passed out on the floor under her desk. Apparently, he'd been hiding from Dick who was visiting from Blüdhaven and forgot to bring his coffee with him, consequently falling asleep while he waited for her to arrive so he could ask her to go pick some up for him. That had been an interesting Thursday morning. 

On another memorable occasion, Cass, Bruce's only official daughter, and her girlfriend Steph had shown up, said hi, went upstairs, then came back down after about an hour, giggling as they ran out with a wave goodbye. Not even ten minutes later, Bruce himself stumbled out of the elevator, absolutely covered in purple glitter. May remembers raising an eyebrow and asking if Bruce wanted her to have another suit brought in.

He'd ended up collapsing on one of the couches with an exhausted sigh, and said he'd have Alfred pick him up instead. He left a sparkly trail behind him when he walked, and the couch he sat on had to be replaced because, even after numerous cleaning attempts, no one could get the glitter out. He had glitter in his hair for months afterwards.

So, May hadn't bat an eye when the little boy came in. Well aware Bruce had several meetings scheduled that day, she sent him an email saying one of his kids was taking a nap in the reception hall and resolved to look out for the boy herself. Throughout the day, she made sure to check on him often, making sure no one picked him up ran (this was Gotham after all).

He slept soundly for most of her work day, barely shifting. She ended up putting a blanket on him herself during her lunch break and leaving him a water bottle and little snack for when he woke up. She also made sure security kept an eye on him whenever she left for whatever reason.

It was well into the afternoon when Bruce finally replied to her email and asked if his kid was still sleeping downstairs. She said yes, and not long after he arrived on the ground level. He walked up to her desk and asked if his kid had caused her any trouble. She smiled and assured him no.

Then Bruce asked where Tim was.

"Sorry? Tim isn't here today."

Bruce frowned, looking just as confused as she felt. "My apologies. You said one of my wards was asleep here. I assumed it was Tim."

"Oh! No, no, it's not Tim. Well, I don't actually know his name but the little guy has been here since this morning." She gestured to the toddler in question.

Bruce turned around, saw him, and frowned. "He's not one of mine."

"He's not?"

"No. Are you sure he's not an employee's child?" He kept his eyes on the boy, eyes narrowed in thought.

"Yes, I am. Only three employees brought in their children today, and all of them are ten or above. He can't be older than five." She frowned now too, turning to her computer to double check. "I'll send out a company-wide email to be sure. I should have done this sooner. I'm sorry, I was just so sure he was under your care."

"It's alright, May. I'm not upset. I'm just worried about him. When about in the morning did he get here?"

She glanced up, but Bruce was still looking at the sleeping boy. "A little after nine."

"And he's been sleeping all that time?"

"Yes, as far as I'm aware."

"Alright. Thank you for looking after him. I'll take it from here."

"Of course, sir. I'll reach out to you if anyone identifies him."

He nodded appreciatively and walked over to the boy. She watched, frustrated with herself. She's worked as one of Wayne Enterprise's receptionists for over four years. She should have known better than to just assume some random, black haired blue eyed child was Bruce's kid. She should have at least reached out to make sure that was the case.

She sighed as Bruce knelt down by the couch and gently shook the little boy awake, resting her head in the palm of her hand. This poor child. His poor parents. They must be worried sick.

She has to make this right.

---

[arielluva]

its just a burning memory

(version without extra effects/textures under cut)

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 209

Now Jason was planning on, well, a lot of things, when he came back to Gotham. He had a lot of plans, several of which had to do with the old man and even more that had to do with cleaning up Crime Alley, making it safer and all that. 

What he was not planning on was to find some sort of lab in the basement of where he was planning on setting up a safehouse. Nor was he planning on finding several literal children in cages inside said lab. Oh and Lazarus Waters- but children! With muzzles! Being experimented on!

Now he’d like to say he had a plan in what happened next, but if he’s honest everything had gone Green and he didn’t remember what happened next, only that he’s back home with said children and covered in blood. Oh and everything smells of smoke. 

… And apparently there’s more of these things dotted around Crime Alley with the rest of these kids, er, siblings? Family? Fright does mean family? Okay kids, he’s not turning into Bruce but you can stay here while he deals with this… however long that takes. 

He better not be turning into Bruce he swears-

[darkfluffydragon]

Decided to make a quick height chart for the Phantasmagoria Beasts, though I only drew SM, ES and BS since they were the only ones with designs I'd decided on XD. Knowledge is the only pre-corruption one since he actually goes through a height change after being sealed in the silver tree.

They're really tall, tall enough that they don't...exactly feel like 'cookies'. Except for Knowledge, he's an exception. The others tease him about it lol.

[lunar-wandering]

THIS FUCKING EXPRESSIONNNNN

[angelsonoah]

The first act he committed as Dream of The Endless was to pay a visit for one Alexander Burgess.

Morpheus wasn't human, Daniel was.

So when even the most kindest soul is not forgiving,

that should be justified.

And he had a lot of people to visit.

[askblueandviolet]

How did I get here... (Had to remember I was a wukong blog)

MASTER POST

Asks Start 💜

Previous 💜

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[starcurtain]

A Very Rambling Rant about Alhaitham and Aranara

Sigh. Everyone on twitter is all excited over this idea that Alhaitham can see aranara, and I don't mean to be downer but like... I kind of hate this. Not the idea of Alhaitham seeing aranara, which is very cute, very nice, yes, but more the way this kind of thing unfolds.

It's a classic example of unconfirmed material, extraneous to the actual game, getting put out on social media like it's canon: Someone tweets "ALHAITHAM CAN SEE ARANARA!!" and suddenly it's running rampant in the fandom and people are completely convinced it's canonically true, without the actual game or any confirmed story-relevant materials genuinely supporting the idea. This is exactly how misinformation gets spread. (I'm looking at you, "Jade enslaved Aventurine" Star Rail fandom brainrot.)

And it's this "bandwagon canon" that leads to constant issues in the fandom when people point out that even some widely accepted stuff is actually fanon. People are literally vicious over defending things that don't actually have any evidence in the game itself.

I really wish this fandom was better at distinguishing "This thing is factually true" and "This is a really cool idea and there might be a few hints for it! I'm going to make this my headcanon!" Watching stuff in fandom go un-fact-checked genuinely makes me terrified for people's ability to fact check real world issues sometimes!

Not to mention the way this conversation is happening is just really unpleasant too?

I saw multiple tweets with thousands of likes going around saying things like "Of course Alhaitham can still see the aranara; he has child-like wonder while Kaveh is traumatized and had to grow up too fast, so it makes sense he can't see them."

Which like... This is so gross to me? Are these people just missing the massive unfortunate implications of their own words--the idea that traumatized people can't experience wonder for the world anymore? That they're somehow broken and can't experience any child-like joy??? It's a deeply unpleasant take to me.

And not only that, it directly contradicts actual canon, because Yoimiya's entire second story quest was about a girl going through a traumatic illness that confined her to a wheelchair and led to her experiencing guilt and depression--and about helping her to see that everything that made life worth living was still there for her, and that she had never lost her wonder or will to live in the first place.

And the whole thing just smacks of a fundamental misunderstanding of why adults can't see the aranara in the first place. It's not because there's some sort of magical "You must be 18 or younger to see aranara" rule. It's because the aranara themselves choose not to be seen by adults. They protect themselves by making themselves invisible. They're not invisible by nature! Everyone can see them--when the aranara want to be seen. Conversely, this means that adults with "childlike wonder" are not just automatically seeing aranara left and right. No matter how happy and childish at heart an adult is, they will only see an aranara if the aranara personally trust them and want to be seen.

The aranara trust children because children are generally good-hearted (and also probably easy to escape from), so there is usually no need to keep themselves invisible to children, but even among children, they are invisible until they choose to be seen. (I think everyone forgot the quest where you find the child who was kidnapped by the Fatui in the forest, saved by an aranara who chose to reveal itself to her, but then she refuses to go back to the village, so you leave her at the aranara nursery--only the aranara there at the nursery choose not to reveal themselves to her because they don't know her yet.) Even with children, aranara don't just go running up on them--they're incredibly cautious creatures who only show themselves after they're sure they'll be safe. They distrust adults because adults deliberately use "growing up" as an excuse to abandon simplicity, kindness, and gentleness in order to embrace concepts that include getting ahead of others and seeking profit--two things which could be particularly dangerous for a vulnerable forest fairy population.

There's also an extremely complicated intersection between the aranara and memory, as they represent and upon "death" return to being the forest's living memory itself. Avin, the girl in Yoimiya's story quest, is a child--but still loses the ability to visit her aranara companion because her illness keeps her away from the forest so long that she simply forgets her aranara buddy ever existed. Even aranara who would love to continue playing with their human companions find themselves forgotten over and over again, because they simply don't linger in human memory well. It's a giant metaphor for how fleeting and temporary human existence is in comparison to the natural world! It's a metaphorrrrrrr.

(There's also the fact that aranara freely move between reality and dreaming--something which Sumeru's adult population only recently regained the ability to even do.)

And like... does no one remember that Yoimiya could only see the aranara because Traveler was there to introduce her to them? She doesn't just automatically see them even though she has all the childish wonder possible in her heart.

I even saw tweets saying that anyone who thinks Alhaitham doesn't have child-like wonder in his heart and wouldn't automatically be able to see aranara fundamentally misunderstands his character and I just... First, see the point above--this is already a misunderstanding of how aranara work.

Second, am I just crazy, or is there absolutely nothing about having wonder and curiosity and passion for the world around you that is confined to children? Are we really going with "Having an imagination is for kids" as our takeaway from all this?

Alhaitham absolutely is passionate! He loves Sumeru as much as Nahida does! The mysteries of the world fascinate him, and he wants to be doing nothing more than ravenously learning and taking in new information at every opportunity!

But finding wonder and joy in life's mysteries is absolutely not restricted to children!

There's nothing inherently "childish" about loving fiction and the fantastical world of books, having a vivid imagination, being passionate about learning new things, and just plain out enjoying life. I'm sorry everyone else has apparently become such miserable adults that the only way they can believe Alhaitham finds joy in the world is by assuming he must have maintained a "child-like" inner nature. Please go read more books and touch more grass and maybe you too will experience adult wonder and joy???

Alhaitham's vivid curiosity about the world isn't remotely "child-like." It's based on the same sort of philosophical obsessions that drove Plato and Aristotle to redefine human thinking. To Alhaitham, Sumeru is likely much more vivid and beautiful and full of intrigue because he is now an adult who has the ability to freely think, formulate deeper questions, and the means to pursue research into his personal passions. His teaser trailer is literally about how he took the job of the Scribe because the Scribe records truth--not child-like faith in the magic of the world, but a constant unfilled yearning to get closer and closer to what is real.

If Alhaitham can see aranara, it's because he's earned the trust of the aranara by his deeds, not because he's secretly still an innocent, sweet baby boy deep down who has chosen not to grow up. (And like, if "traumatized people don't see aranara" is really what we're going with, are we actually arguing Kaveh is the only traumatized, "grew up too soon" one here? Did everyone just forget Alhaitham is an orphan with zero surviving family members left in the world and that he spent his entire childhood friendless, at least as far as we've been shown?)

Winning the trust of the aranara is something anyone could do if they show strong enough positive traits--just basic kindness, gentleness, and patience, which I promise you, adults can have.

At the very least, if we're going to suggest Alhaitham is child-like, can't we at least point to his actual childish behaviors, such as constantly pulling Kaveh's pigtails like a schoolboy with his first crush? Throwing hands with anyone who pisses him off too much? Being a jokester who continually sends Paimon books because she picked on him for his choice of reading materials once? At least y'all could have started there... Come on, now.

Phew, this really was a whole rant, but I just needed to get that off my chest. The Hoyo fandoms on twitter are so, so bad. Like man, don't claim people are mischaracterizing someone while not even knowing the lore yourself... Sorry if that sounds harsh, but...

[severus-snaps]

a fun little headcanon I've been thinking about lately is that Snape was somehow involved in giving evidence for (or witnessed part of) the torture of Alice and Frank Longbottom

I like to imagine that the capture and torture of the Longbottoms was, of course, done by the Lestranges and Barty Crouch Jr. But how do we know? Alice and Frank were probably in no condition to give evidence themselves, of course - described as 'tortured to insanity' to the point where they don't recognise their own son - and the death eaters weren't about to hand themselves in. For Bellatrix this is part of her MO, I'd imagine - but the others??

So Snape possibly heard about it on the grapevine, and gave evidence (either at his own trial if he had one, or privately to the authorities/Dumbledore). Bellatrix was probably having a great time and bragged about it to the other DEs/her sister/Lucius, and she even bragged at her trial, so she'd have been connected to it easily enough (and was it her husband who was also there? Snape probably knew the family personally via Lucius)

but I like to think, for the sake of this headcanon, that Snape was there - that this was another time where he 'slithered out of action' in Bellatrix's eyes, and went to stand watch, or arrived late with the excuse of teaching at Hogwarts, etc. That he knew their voices - because whether Bellatrix wore her mask or removed it, Snape would know it was her, would know her voice, would hear it through the others, and reported the incident

But what about Crouch? There was some doubt, even from Dumbledore, whether he was involved. This isn't so far-fetched; many DEs didn't know who the other DEs even were (per Karkaroff's trial), Snape could only identify for certain the Lestranges.

Perhaps when the torture proved fruitless, Crouch left before Snape arrived whilst Bellatrix continued her fun - or, Snape witnessed/was nearby for the whole thing, but Crouch was unidentifiable beneath the DE mask (not being as intimiately connected to the Blacks/Malfoys/Lestranges), which was why Dumbledore couldn't say for certain that he was involved.

But what I also like to think is that Snape, had he been there, heard a screaming child in the next room; a child who'd grow up to have nightmares about masked figures, who would never forget his parents' screams.

Now, Snape is not a comforting man. He is not a maternal man. He didn't cradle the crying toddler, didn't soothe it. But there was one thing he could do - something pragmatic, something that wouldn't arouse suspicion from the death eaters, nor incriminate him in the eyes of the law, or alert Muggle authorities or the Aurors.

"Obliviate."

The child's eyes gloss over for a moment, and Severus has left the room before it's even stopped crying.

Turns out Snape's not very good at memory charms, and he slightly damaged the child's memory for life. A small price to pay for not having to remember that night, he reasons (through gritted teeth; has no patience for the fact that it now impacts his potions lessons).

So perhaps there's a reason that Neville is dangerous in potions; and perhaps it's the same reason that Neville's boggart is Snape "bearing down upon him, reaching inside his robes"

[aardvaark]

i was thinking about how i wished leverage had a birthday episode for some of the characters cause that would be sweet, but then i realised something and basically…. okay here’s my thoughts in quotes form, just for fun

hardison: so when’s your birthday? i could plan something for us and the team to do and-

parker: i dont know

hardison: you don’t know… your own birthday?

parker: no, how would i know? pshh, cmon, you’re telling me you remember EXACTLY when you were born? watch this - hey, eliot, do you know your exact birth date?

eliot, innocently passing by, who was canonically anonymously dropped off at a hospital as an infant: no, how would i know?

parker: that’s what i said!

hardison: excuse me?? what is going on right now

sophie, walking into the apartment: whats wrong?

hardison: parker and eliot- well, okay, when’s your birthday? i just have to prove something.

sophie: …….july 12th

hardison: why did you pause? wait, is that your birthday or sophie devereaux’s birthday?

sophie: ………… (guilty silence)

parker: see, no one knows their real birthday! haha you’re so weird sometimes, hardison

hardison:

hardison: what the fuck guys

[nenoname]

I'm a broken record about this but after so many years of being left with the Axolotl poem about Bill, it'd be so lame if Bill never did reincarnate, and it'd be just as disappointing if it ended up being something minor like a cicada (although it'd be hilarious if he reincarnated, immediately died and then reincarnated into something else).

And to me, the wording of the original Axolotl poem really does make it seem like the reincarnation itself is the 'redemption' and the deal is that Bill is basically passing responsibility to someone else, after he's done with therapy and like.... doesn't pass down all of his many issues.

(Plus I dunno if it's my understanding of reincarnation that's wrong but it feels that when Bill is like 'yeah let me use the reset button!!!', he's forgetting that its way different from using a continue and he's just gonna end up with the equivalent of a shoddy new game plus made for a wrong character/setting at best)

Meanwhile, we're left with Bill poem about Stan that's the same in execution (a cryptic message between space and time and by that I mean hidden on the internet lol), with the same purpose (an opening/lingering mystery for Alex to use when he wants to return to the series) with the same elements (fire, lies, redemption, home) and numerous comparisons to Bill's own philosophy on lies that's repeated again in the same website.

(Also been thinking about how amnesiac!Stan could sorta be thought of as a reincarnation of himself in terms of mind only. The same soul being hit with that reset gun button, a chance of a new self unburdened by the past, but via the power of love and family they went nope!!! we want you back!!!)

Either way, with the poem and the book's ending there's the obvious Bill+Stan connection that we're supposed to acknowledge!!!

[bayetea]

I think it's really annoying that leo has completely falsified memories of jason too and this is barely acknowledged in the books

[terranceholdsapencil]

I sometimes think its weird that everyone must have a 'favourite doctor'. I get the appeal, but how its so wide spread baffles me.

Theyre all one person, in the end, with each regeneration being all that came before and more, and a little different due to the experiences they had and the people theyve met, just how I am different from when I was 15 years old, but still the same.

I have a favourite doctor for conveniency reasons, mostly, 12- but even then, whats a 'favourite doctor'. My favourite performance? My favourite to have a fun time with? My favourite to make me aspire to be better? My favourite to laugh, my favourite to cry for? Theyre all different. I love 12 as much as I love 1 or 2 or 3 or 4. Maybe I have incarnations I dont feel as strongly for, but thats usually out of unfamiliarity with all they went through and by such an inability to truly grasp who the doctor was when they wore that face (e.g. my only experience with 8 being the tv movie) or because they amplify parts of the doctor Im less fond of (e.g. six being a little mean).

But in the end, theyre all of it anyway? All of the Doctor is mean, whether its the first doctor or the sixth or the tenth, all doctors are kind, whether its the second or fourth or 12th or 14th, all of the doctor has experienced grief, all of them is strong willed, brave, afraid.

I like the idea of having a 'favourite'. To me its a little like your favourite actors role, I love david tennants hamlet more than I like his alec hardy, but I still love his acting, period.

But this obsession of needing a favourite doctor, of needing to love one part of this beautiful, incredible character more than others, often it feels unfair to who they are. This grand person being reduced to a few years of their endlessly long life. To a single face.

Maybe that's what feels so real about thoschei. Companions tend to get attached to a face. To this one part. To the master the current doctor's body is secondary.

"Doesn't matter which face he was wearing, they're all the Doctor to me."

And they are, in fact, all the Doctor.