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marvelstoriesepic · 10 hours ago

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Like a Phoenix (7)

Pairing: Mercenary!Bucky x Princess!Reader

Series Summary: An attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen.

Word Count: 7.7k

Warnings: mentions of murder, fire, death, knives, blood, loss of parents, fever, betrayal; injuries; grief; self-loathing; crying; heavy revelations; tension

Author’s Note: Omg I'm over 50k into this story, I can’t believe it lol. I'm actually proud of myself. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter! ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

The collections of brilliant greens and golden blossoms are spread out before you. The merge of all the wildflowers and herbs is sharp with pine and earth and mint and honey-like. Invigorating.

You kneel on a patch of mossy ground near the campfire. Bucky had lit it the second you got back. The fire is crackling.

Pine needles shimmer faintly with dew, their resinous tang sharp in your nose. Feverfew with its delicate flowers nestle beside clusters of clover blooms, their soft pink petals almost luminous in the flecked sunlight.

Contemplating with what you are going to begin, you run your fingers across goldenrod stems, their tiny mustard-colored buds crumbling slightly under your touch. The medicinal scent of yarrow stands proud among the rest.

The familiar smells and colors again bring echoes of your mother’s voice from the palace gardens. Patient and gentle as she taught you the properties of each plant.

The pale leaves of Lily’s Balm feel waxy on your fingers. They are good for soothing inflamed wounds and drawing out heat from infection. Feverfew against his overheated skin, lowering the fever, its green frilled edges so delicate and lace-like. Wild mint will ease his breathing and calm his body. Clover blooms for their gentle healing abilities. Yarrow and Goldenrod, both strong bases, to slow his bleeding. Wild thyme to cleanse, and pine, sticky with resin, pungent and purifying.

You exhale slowly, deliberately dragging air through your lungs. This is your time to be useful. To actually do something other than dwell in your sorrows and the losses you had to endure.

Bucky is slightly hovering in your line of vision. He is silent. But you don’t like him walking and shuffling around the way he does while the fever sweat hangs onto his brows and the freshly stained blood lingers on his shirt. It makes you queasy. You don’t know if he hid his injury due to oversight or simple stubbornness, but either way, he should not walk around like that.

“You should sit down,” you tell him while beginning to strip the yarrow leaves from their stems.

He doesn’t answer right away, so you glance up. He stands there stubbornly arms crossed over his chest, looking right back at you with a guarded expression. Though he definitely looks paler than he should be. And you avoid looking at the blood stain on purpose.

“M’ fine,” he grumbles, brushing you off. And before you get to an answer, he continues. “Your side,” he counters, voice gravelly. “Let me check it first.”

“I am not the one bleeding.”

His lips purse. “You callin’ me color blind, darlin’? I know what I'm seein’. That’s definitely red there.”

Well, maybe you did bleed through Bucky’s bandage, but that will have to wait.

“We can get to that later.”

Bucky takes a step closer, shadows flickering across his face from the low fire. “Princess-”

“No. Now sit,” you instruct, cutting him off and surprising even yourself with your tone.

Bucky is silent for a beat. You hear him shifting but stay focused on your herbs. “You tellin’ me what to do now, princess?” There is a sparkle of amusement in his voice and in the tug of the corner of his mouth.

Briefly glancing back at him, you meet his eyes with a steadiness you don’t quite feel. “No,” you tell him. “I am telling you I would not know what to do if you passed out.”

He scoffs, clearly offended by the suggestion. “Gonna take more than that to knock me out, darlin’.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself. “Humor me?”

He watches you for a moment longer, eyes narrowing, trying to decide whether to argue further. But then he relents with a low huff, lowering himself onto a flat rock by the fire basically in front of you. The movement is slow and you catch the wince he tries to hide. But he looks more relaxed sitting down.

Satisfied, you turn back to your work. The yarrow leaves are crunched between your fingers. Their pungent smell rises while you release the healing oils from the leaves and add them to a small tin cup filled with clean water from the stream.

The goldenrod comes next. The yellow of the flowers vivid against the darker-turning liquid.

Furrowing your brow slightly, you swirl your head around to look for something that might help you prepare and stir the herbs. And then you remember. Hurriedly, you get up and walk over to the discarded cloak, the one you had laid over Bucky in his sleep. There’s something safely tucked inside that you can use at the moment.

It’s a dagger. It’s not as lengthy as Bucky’s, but it is enough. You took it from the fight. Obviously, it is not the very same one you picked up to throw at Rumlow, because that one is likely still buried in his body, but you found it lying on the ground and picked it up.

You just did not find something useful to do with it. Until now.

You walk back to the herbs and Bucky at the fire.

Since Bucky’s gaze followed you, he catches sight of the blade immediately and looks up at you in surprise. “You kept that?”

Not looking back at him, you settle down and focus on slicing the leaves of Lily’s Balm into thin ribbons. “Didn’t know whether I would have to save your life again,” you quip.

You don’t know where that came from. Perhaps having a real purpose for once is making you regain something akin to confidence.

The sound that follows though, startles you. It’s a laugh. Bucky’s laugh. Sudden and loud and gruff, lifting somewhere far within his chest. It’s so unbridled, stemming from surprise. And it is utterly captivating. It makes your hands halt. Never have you heard him laugh before. Really laugh. Not like this. You are entranced. The sound floats for a while and you never want it to stop. It makes his voice to a soft glow of mirth.

You stare at him, half amazed, half in disbelief.

But he isn’t even looking at you. His head is tilted to the ground, shaking. He’s still chuckling to himself. Lips pulled into a wide grin. “Aren’t you full of surprises, darlin’.”

You watch him for a few seconds longer. The corners of your mouth lift and there is nothing you can do to stop them. “I am glad that this is entertaining for you.”

Turning back to the leaves, you try to calm the fast pace of your heart. The blade slices cleanly through the stems and leaves. But you can’t really focus on that. The shake of Bucky’s shoulders in a silent laugh catches your vision. His laughter keeps ringing in your mind. And you still want to hear it again.

Pine resin is sticky on your skin, the sap gleaming amber in the sunlight. You crush the prepared leaves into the dark liquor and mix it into a fine paste, adding the pine resin to create a thick, fragrant balm. The yarrow adds a cooling element, its sharp scent cutting through the heavier tones. It is perfect to stop the bleeding and prevent infection.

You take a quick glance over at Bucky. His head is bowed, forearms resting on his knees, but his eyes are fixed on you, sharp despite his fever. There is something quiet in the way he watches you. Astonishment. Curiosity.

“Where did you learn that?” he speaks up quietly, as if using a normal voice would disturb something intimate. There is something about the way he uses his voice and winds his tone, that almost makes you believe he is admiring what you are doing. As if this is a wonder.

You don’t look up at him, hoping he won’t notice the slight flinch in your fingers. Or the pang in your chest. “My mother taught me.” Your voice is even quieter than his has been.

He doesn’t say more. Perhaps he doesn’t even have to see the pang in your chest. He heard it in your voice.

You start the second tincture, the one for him to drink. Feverfew, wild thyme, clover blooms, and wild mint. Combined they will help ease his fever and cleanse his body.

Your hands almost move on their own, preparing the leaves. On instinct. It feels unexpected. But it makes you realize just how important those moments with your mother really were to you. And now they turn so monumental, it makes your chest close in on itself. You carry this from your old world. Something useful. Something that has survived of her even if everything else now lays in ruins.

Your breath trembles on the cusp of grief. But you get a hold of it.

Another glance over at Bucky makes something cold skate down your back, leaving a trail of tension.

Sweat accumulates again on his forehead despite the coolness of the forest. His lips are pressed together. The bloodstain on his right shoulder has again spread further than you hoped, darkening the brown leather of his armor. His fever is climbing. That’s not good.

You rush through the second tincture, mixing everything in water again and heating it over the fire at the same time. The liquor is thick and green with a sharp scent. Carefully, you pour it into another small tin cup, making sure it’s not too hot for him to drink.

Rising, you cross the short distance to him and crouch down again.

“What’s that?” Bucky asks immediately, eying it warily.

“It will help you relax and lower the fever,” you assure him gently. “Drink it.”

He leans forward slightly, skepticism written all over his face. He grimaces faintly at the smell and you have to hold back an amused smile. For a man like him, he surely acts like a diva.

“You sure you’re not tryin’a poison me, darlin’?” he drawls, humor winding through his words. However, if you’re not wrong, you can detect a hint of nervousness.

It makes your heart sink but you manage to play lightly, rolling your eyes. “You are the reason I am alive, so I am pretty sure poisoning you would be counterproductive.”

His brows inch upward as he looks at you with an unreadable, but intense expression. With a deep sigh, he then takes the cup from your hands and downs it in one swift motion. His face twists with disgust and he swipes the back of his hand against his lips, releasing a cough. “Tastes like dirt,” he rasps.

Biting back a smile, you get up to retrieve the balm for his wound. “I think you will live.”

You watch him set down the cup with a heavy sigh, the lines of his face softening.

“You don’t gotta do this, darlin’.”

“You have done it for me,” you retort, walking back over to him and kneeling down. This time with the tin cup holding the balm for his wound.

Bucky lets out a breathless laugh, shaking his head at your stubbornness. He watches you with intrigued eyes. But there still is that nervousness surrounding him.

“Let me see,” you request, almost timidly, but willing strength into your voice.

He shifts where he sits on the rock, clearly uncomfortable with the request. His jaw is hard. Muscles are tense beneath the bloodied remains of his shirt.

“You are still bleeding,” you acknowledge more firmly. “Take it off.”

His brows rise at your sudden authority, but there is amusement in the motion. A smirk curves his lips despite himself. He doesn’t make a move to do what you say though.

“Gettin’ a little too bossy there, for my likin’, princess,” he teases, each word dripping with sly delight.

“Bucky.” Your tone turns soft again, but your resolve remains firm. His shoulder is worrying you. “Please.”

After a tense moment of quiet, he drags out a long and sharp breath through his nose and straightens up. With a grimace, he slowly shrugs off his brown armor. His shirt underneath is sticking to his torso, dark with sweat and dried but also fresh blood.

You swallow hard as he peels the fabric away from his shoulder, revealing a part of the wound he’s been keeping to himself.

The gash extends out from his shoulder and dips slightly towards his upper chest. It’s an arc of torn and angry flesh. A mass of swelling blood crusts around the edges under a layer of sweat, laying a dreary tapestry of red and brown on the skin below. It looks puckered and bumpy, suggesting that the blade that pierced him must have been of serrated or distorted nature upon impact.

You might have stared at it a second too long because Bucky lets out an uncomfortable cough.

“Lucky swing,” he says tersely, to make this a little less awkward. It does not quite work out, because now you are staring at his face oddly. To you, this does not look like someone got lucky, considering the fact that the man responsible for this is dead now and Bucky has to carry this around.

But what snaps your attention back to the wound is the heat you feel radiating off it. And it confirms what you already suspected - infection is setting in. The skin around the wound is inflamed, making it glisten ominously.

However, what makes your hands tremble lightly in discomfort is the fact that you won’t be able to access every part of that gash with his shirt on.

“You, uhm-” you start nervously, unsure of how he will react. “I am going to need you to take your shirt off as well.”

He stares at you.

“I will not be able to reach everything like this,” you explain, still timid.

He sighs, dropping his head a fraction, before slowly starting to peel his shirt off. He winces with the movements of his arms, fabric tugging against drying blood.

The full extent of his wound looks even uglier. You try your best to ignore the pale lines of violence scattered across his skin, especially his other shoulder - the scars you caught glimpses of at the river. Your gaze quickly moves to the flesh injury.

You don’t want him to feel uncomfortable. Well, not more than he already seems to be.

“Lean back for me,” you instruct, not wanting to waste more time, but keeping your voice kind.

There definitely is something surreal about telling Bucky what to do. You’ve been doing that basically your whole life - giving instructions and following the ones you’ve been told by people higher than you - but with Bucky, it feels different. The words taste odd in your mouth.

Bucky hesitates. His lips press into a thin line and he eyes the tin cup gloomily. He looks as though he might argue but then he thinks better of it. Reluctantly, he shifts his weight and braces himself against a tree behind him.

You dip your fingers into the balm, the cool, thick paste sticking to your skin. Bucky watches you, his whole body full of tension. A tremor passes through his throat as he forces a breath past the lump there.

He is not used to this. To being cared for in this way, to having someone’s full attention on his pain. That much is clear.

“This might sting,” you warn, voice quiet.

He grunts.

Steeling yourself, you let your hand hover over his shoulder. “Are you ready?”

He grunts again, giving you a tight nod. You try to ignore the way he watches you. He seems to be bracing for more than the sting of the tincture.

Warming the balm between your fingers, you press it gently against the torn flesh. The scent of the wild herbs is strong in the air.

Bucky goes incredibly rigid. His breath hitches sharply. His eyes flash for a fraction of a second before settling into a void you can’t decode.

Even the forest around you seems quieter while you spread the self-made lotion on his shoulder. You are precise in your sweeps, careful not to meet any of his skin that doesn’t need your touch.

The more you work, the steadier he gets. He doesn’t make a sound, but the discomfort doesn’t entirely leave his body. Discomfort of pain or vulnerability, you can’t tell. Probably both. His hands are clenched into loose fists at his sides. But you do notice the few relieved sighs he lets slip unintentionally after a few swipes over his skin.

The wound resists at first, but you move your fingers with patience and caution, in even strokes. Quickly, the ointment begins to calm the irritated areas, drawing out some of the heat.

Bucky’s chest rises in a deep inhale against your fingers and you avoid the almost magnetic pull his piercing eyes have on you. He watches you so intently, all you can do is to keep your gaze on your task and resist whatever heat simmers in his stare.

The herbs already seem to ease the swelling a little bit and you are confident that they will stave off the infection. It makes you breathe easier, despite the intimacy of your current situation. You’re so close to him, asking so much of him, and with every careful sweep across his torn skin, you are getting more aware of it.

Then, without warning, one of his hands reaches up and wraps around your wrist gently. Making you still mid-motion.

“Stop,” he says quietly, his voice rough but not unkind.

You freeze startled, blinking at him. “What?”

“Keep some of that for yourself,” he insists, slowly pulling your hand away from his shoulder. “You need it.”

You take a moment to consider what he even means. Then, you shake your head. “I do not-”

“You don’t wanna argue with me, darlin’. Keep the rest for yourself,” he repeats, more sternly this time. His eyes darken into something bordering on concern.

You stare at him. And then you don’t. Eyes going to his now-covered wound, and the tin cup in your hand that still holds some of the paste you made.

Biting pressure makes your heart seem to seize.

You didn’t even consider using the balm for yourself. Your side is still stinging. The bandage is still red with blood. But you did not spare it a single thought. Did not think about caring for it in the way you did for Bucky’s wound.

Every leaf, every petal, every drop of resin has been meant for him. The idea of keeping any for your own wound has never so much as crossed your mind. You haven’t thought about it consciously, but now it is glaringly obvious. You would use every last drop of the balm for him without hesitation. There’s something wrong about that, something you dislike confessing even to yourself.

Bucky is still watching you with his brows drawn together. He nods toward the tin cup in your hand but keeps his eyes on you. “If you knew how to do that the whole time, then why don’t do it earlier? For yourself?”

You take a pause. His hand is still warm around your wrist, basically lying on his lap. Sharp eyes are gauging your reaction.

“I just- It did not come to my mind,” you admit, shaking your head dismissively. “But it is of little consequence now.”

His expression is hard. Not the kind of hard you knew his features to hold when you met him. It’s not meant for you directly. But it still is there because of you, because of the way you think. His jaw shifts, muscles moving in tense vibrations, grappling with words he isn’t sure he should say. “That’s bullshit,” he voices with a stiffness in his tone.

The blunt language of this man is an insult on its own. But the meaning of his words still hit you.

A shaky breath falls from your lips.

Never once have you thought of soothing the pain of your own conscience or making a balm for yourself.

Your side has ached, the wound pulsing and throbbing and hurting, but it faded to insignificance as soon as you saw the streaks of sweat trickling from him and the blood blooming across his shirt. Every instinct has driven you to help him.

And why? Because you somehow deserve the agony, don’t you? The thought is bitter in your chest. You don’t believe you deserve the care, the relief of healing herbs, the preservation of your own body.

You haven’t been of use to him, needing his protection at every waking moment. You killed a man. You failed to stay out of harm’s way like Bucky had told you to. That’s what got you injured in the first place. Stupid girl.

It is shameful to think of how invulnerable you have thought him to be. You relied on him so utterly, so selfishly, leaned on him without a care in the world, and laid all your troubles upon his already burdened shoulders. How many times did you assume he is untouchable, indestructible? And now here he is, bleeding, just like everybody else, and keeping it to himself. Because you haven’t been enough.

This is your fault. You relied on him too much, demanded too much, not even considering the toll.

Darkness engulfs those thoughts.

Your throat feels bound. Your heart works in stuttered pauses. Breathing doesn’t feel like relief. Swallowing doesn’t drag down the tide of self-loathing making its way up your spine.

Bucky’s thumb brushes against your pulse and it snaps your attention right back to him. You pull away from his hold and he releases your wrist immediately. Though his hand retreats to his side rather slowly.

“Whatever you’re thinkin’, don’t” he states rather calmly but somehow still so intensely. His voice is so low it seems to be scraping against something hard.

You meet his eyes then. They are insistent. Resolved. Sharp. They make you attempt another try to gulp down the knot in your throat but it doesn’t work.

“What?” you ask weakly.

His persistent eyes remain fixed on you. “I know that look. Stop it.”

A choking sensation cinches tight around your throat. It is strangling and stifling and makes you want to turn away. But he somehow manages to keep you on the spot.

“I-”

“Don’t,” repeats, softer this time. His hand twitches at his side and he takes a quick glance at the quiver in your own fingers. “This isn’t on you, got it?” His voice is rough with conviction, so fierce.

His gaze still is so relentlessly focused on you to get his point across.

It makes you want to vomit. His words push against the very flimsy barrier of defenses that you have constructed around your guilt. He sees right through it. His gaze makes it see-through. Ineffective. Worthless. Fruitless. Just like how you feel.

“It is not about that,” you try to defend yourself, but it comes out with a frail voice.

“Yeah, it is,” he maintains. “Whatever you’re punishin’ yourself for. Stop. It ain’t gonna get you nowhere.”

The tension in your shoulders doesn’t fully ebb, but something grows warmer around you.

Letting out a long, reluctant sigh, you let your shoulders slump with surrender. Bucky’s gaze softens, something like gratitude crossing his face.

“Thank you, darlin’,” he says quietly, his voice sincere and grounding. “For this.” There is no bravado, just a genuine gratefulness.

You shake your head, heat flooding your features. Your knees ache when you shift and the pain in your side kicks in again.

Bucky stands up slowly and his expression shifts, something resolute settling in his features. “Now,” he announces. “Let me help you with that.”

You blink, thrown off by the sudden change in his tone.

“You don’t-”

He cuts you off with a raised brow and a gesture that brings back his commanding nature. “Sit down,” he orders, pointing you to the stone he sat on moments before. “And better do it now. Because that’s not lookin’ too good.” He throws a concerned look at the tear in your dress that reveals the bloodied dressing he put on.

You open your mouth but his eyes are authoritative enough. You stand up, only to reluctantly sit down again on the very same rock he’s been sitting on. You calculate your movements, to not show him how painful it actually is.

“You always interrupt me. That is not very nice,” you exclaime, perhaps to make his attention on you waver, or just to throw him off with another topic and distract you or him from what he is going to do. Or maybe you should really be annoyed at the way he doesn’t let you finish speaking. But somehow him constantly interrupting you even feels endearing in some kind of way you can’t explain, considering the fact that he only ever does it when he knows he won’t like the words coming from your mouth. Maybe because you tend to talk yourself small.

Bucky’s lips quirk into that maddeningly amused smirk as he takes the tin cup out of your hands. “Not used to people interruptin’ you, princess?” The title carries no cruelty, only an enjoyable warmth that causes a tingling sensation on your skin.

You huff. “Well, I am getting used to it now,” you grumble.

And there it is again. The sound that has caught you off guard before. That laugh. Full-bodied, sonorous, and so utterly disarming in its power over you. It makes its way into your chest. His head is tipped slightly backward, exposing faint laugh lines at the corners of his eyes.

You find yourself staring breathlessly. It’s a sound so human, so rare, so special, that you wish you could bottle it up and keep it safe.

You’re mesmerized by the perfect way his teeth are gleaming at his wide grin.

He catches your gaze and you quickly avert your own, neck turning hot.

Bucky shakes his head, an amused look on his face he obviously tries to stifle. “Come on. You made me listen. Now it’s your turn.”

You sigh, while Bucky moves closer to you in a crouched position. His eyes move to your side and his expression shifts to something far more serious.

“Let me see,” he orders, tone gentle, but somehow not meant to go against it.

The weariness in your body wins out. Or rather, his voice wins out. You pull apart the torn pieces of your dress to give him enough access to the makeshift bandage wrapped around your side. His brow furrows as he takes it in.

“You should’ve said somethin’,” he mutters, seemingly more to himself somehow.

“I was otherwise occupied.”

He snorts, clearly unimpressed with your lame excuse. “Bein’ the stubborn girl you are.”

“Do you feel a change yet? Is the fever going down?”you inquire after a beat.

“You tryin’a distract me, princess?” he hums with amusement. His lip tugs upward lightly.

“I might.” You guess, you can't directly tell him you're genuinely concerned about whether he's feeling any better yet. He certainly appears better, however. He ceased sweating, his eyes are focused and his actions are more precise than before. It causes you to inhale deeply. A sigh that is full of relief.

Bucky breathes out a small laugh. “Don’t know what it is that you did there exactly, but it worked,” he acknowledges with a lighter voice. There is something like disbelief in his tone. Delight. Appreciation. That tiny hint of admiration that seems grow an inch or two.

You watch him carefully remove the fabric around your wound, to look at the injury beneath it. His brows immediately cease together tightly. Tension draws along the lines of his face, knotting his jaw. His face is hard again.

He doesn’t waste time, dipping his fingers into the salve you prepared, the thick paste now covering his calloused fingertips. His other hand brushes against your soft skin as he rather unnecessarily helps you peel back the fabric of your dress on your side.

His other hand moves to your gash so slowly, reverent almost. The first touch to your wound makes you hiss through your teeth and he lets you adjust to the feeling before spreading it around gingerly.

Blue eyes glance up to your face, watching closely for any sign of discomfort as his fingers move over your side, slowing his pace, when he sees your brows twitch, and your breath hitch.

The light of the day shimmers faintly against the angry red margins of your wound getting deliberately covered by the dark paste.

The trail of the many intertwined scents goes for your nose, mingling with faint metallic tangs of blood.

The mixture tingles against your skin, cooling and soothing the angry redness.

It’s a distraction from the fact that he hasn’t bothered to put his shirt back on.

He’s still shirtless.

The forest air kisses bare flesh. The light brings a glimmer of sweat to stand out like bronze, bringing to life the scars and distortions of his muscles. You try and tear your gaze away, dizzy with heat as it spreads over your neck and cheeks, but curiosity is what pulls your eyes back.

He is so very close in front of you. You basically see everything. Each of those lines across his naked chest and shoulders has its own tale you are sure you will never be told. You look away again, but your gaze goes hopping back.

He’s so mesmerizing in every way. He was bleeding in front of you just a moment before, but he still looks so strong. So bulky, despite the fact that he can’t eat much out here and keep his muscles trained because he has to keep an eye on you.

“You’re starin’,” he remarks quietly, not looking up. Fixed on applying the ointment.

The next beat of your heart skips. “I was not-”

“You were,” he confirms, though his tone isn’t accusing. It’s rather light. Lighter than you would have imagined. Amusement underlines his statement.

You bite your cheek, seeking to say something. “I was just thinking,” you mumble, half-heartedly attempting a defense.

“That right?” Soft and subtle humor winds around his tone. He doesn’t glance up, still thoroughly smearing more of the balm over your skin, respecting your reactions. Concentration on his features.

Silence hangs in the air, only interrupted by the rustle of clumps of leaves and a softly wafting breeze.

You hesitate. Your heart gallops in your ears. You tentatively nod at the tin cup in his hand. “Maybe this might help with your scars?” you ask, voice so soft, they almost turn into a whisper. Your fingers are clammy. It’s a feeble question.

Bucky’s hand stills. For a moment, you think he might pull away, but he does not. His finger continues to sweep but a shadow of thought passes over his face. It is not hostile. Not repelling. Just contemplative. Maybe a little surprised.

Then, there is a faint shake of his head. “They don’t hurt anymore,” he says finally. There is a subtle thickness to his voice. But he seems to have control over it.

“We could try,” you say quietly, almost in a hopeful way. So full of good intention, it makes Bucky freeze again.

He huffs out a tiny and gasping laugh. It reaches your collarbone, grazing it faintly. His head drops as though it has become too heavy for him momentarily.

“It won’t work, darlin’.” He says it so softly. Carrying an almost apologetic tone, sympathy wringing his voice dry. His thumb lightly swipes over your skin right above where the wound sits as if it is you who needs the grounding.

Your eyes move to the forest floor. There is a stillness in the air between you, unsaid things hovering in the void. The only sound is the fire crackling undisturbed.

The balm is starting to cover your wound, fragrant with mint and resin, its healing properties also somehow meant for wounds deeper than skin.

The firelight dances across his scars, making them look almost alive. Like memories etched too deep to fade.

Timidly, your quiet voice breaks the silence. “How long?”

Bucky’s brows twitch further together, lips pressing into a thin line. He watches his fingers move over your skin. You see the glimmer of reluctance in his eyes, the internal debate waging behind them.

You immediately regret asking. “You do not have to answer that,” you rush to say. “I apologize for asking.”

He exhales slowly, a sigh heavy with something unnamable rising and falling with his chest. After a long, deliberate pause, his voice is almost indifferent. “Five years.”

The simple answer hits you harder than expected. Five years. A timeline begins forming in your mind, grim shadows stretching across those years - the kind of scars that can’t always be seen.

Your back tightens as a cold shiver winds through you.

Five years. You find it hard to process. Five years of carrying whatever - whoever - has carved those scars into his body.

“You were a soldier,” you express quietly, voice so small, almost fragile.

His eyes are detached when he nods once. It’s a simple gesture and yet so complex. “I was.” His voice is clipped, but not harsh. He lets out a sound resembling a cough.

You needed the confirmation. Needed to hear it from his own lips. It solidified something inside you.

You feel your breath grow shallow, thoughts going into a haze. You have heard the bitterness in his voice whenever your father was mentioned, words tinged with disdain. He didn’t hide his contempt. He even let it out on you. But it begins to take shape. Those scars. The way he no longer claims the title of soldier as if that privilege was taken from him along with something far more precious.

He still carries himself with that form of discipline, even when standing still. Always ready for the next hit to strike. But he tried to shrug off the remnants of that past as a soldier - a soldier in your father’s army, no less.

Something has happened. Something shattering. Something traumatic.

A shiver of unease crawls along your spine, prickling every nerve.

Your father always held you to impossible standards. His love was a conditional thing that you were forever grasping to earn. He has always been a man of authority, his word was a law, and his decisions were never questioned. But there were cracks in that facade, fractures that you have chosen to ignore a long time ago. And now, those cracks are gaping, yawning wide, and you are meant to fall into them.

Your gaze falls back to the marks on his shoulder. Throat feeling constricted.

“Did my father have a hand in that?” Your voice is wavering. Anxiety gnaws at your chest, each heartbeat heavy with dread.

Bucky’s gaze lifts to you. He looks you in the eyes so intensely. Whatever he’s thinking remains locked behind his gaze, hidden from reach. But he seems to be contemplating whether to shield you from the truth.

“Yes,” he admits then, the single word falling like a stone into the silence.

It struck you with breathtaking force. The earth seems to have slipped beneath your feet and the world tilts, causing a sudden strain in your chest with the awareness that came.

You want to deny it. You want to argue that your father wasn’t capable of such treachery. But deep down, you know better. The cracks have always been there. Carefully tucked behind his walls.

Your throat is a clenched fist, made of muscle, gripping hard against the swell of emotion threatening to rise. Every breath that tries making it up your throat is only getting squeezed out by that fist.

Tears are gathering behind your eyes, the sting of them uncomfortable.

Bucky watches you. He is gauging your reaction with a poignant gentleness - not cruel, not gloating. Just honest. His expression softens, guilt shadowing his features as he takes in your reaction. He clearly does not revel in your heartbreak. It’s clear he regrets having to say it.

You fidget with your fingers. It takes Bucky finishing attending to your wound - smearing the last bit of the balm onto it and dressing it again - until you get a hold of your voice again.

“What happened?” Your voice cracks. Part of you wants to withdraw the question, fearing what he might answer. Or if he even will.

He sighs again. A hand moves to slide over his face as he sits back down, keeping the tin cup in his hand. His forearms lean on his knees, head tilted to the ground. He stays like that for a little while.

He only lifts his head for a second to see the shake in your hands.

“We were in battle. Rumlow and his men went behind our backs. Slaughtered every standin’ soldier. Got me real good, but I wasn’t quite dead. Learned to stay real quiet. Lyin’ on the ground, and all.” He huffs out a humorless laugh. He can’t meet your eyes.

You don’t know if you’re still breathing. It feels like you aren’t.

Your hands clench instinctively, grasping for something that might steady you, but the air only offers shifting shadows.

“And my father-” you choke on a swallow. “He-”

Bucky nods once, sharp and terse. His jaw locks, bracing for words he’d rather not say. “He covered it up.”

An intense pain builds in your heart, burning through the last traces of your faith in the man who has raised you.

The muscles in your face are trembling and there is that stubborn pulse inside your chest where that sob you won’t release tries to carve its way free.

Your father had a hand in Bucky’s pain.

Not just the scars on Bucky’s body, but the ones that run far deeper, the ones so deeply embedded into his very being. A soldier, abandoned by the kingdom he served, betrayed by the very man who should have protected him. Betrayed by the very man whose daughter he’s now been forced to protect. It is such a cruel reality, you can’t breath.

You feel like the air is trying to choke you. Gravity itself seems to conspire against you, pulling you down into the earth’s depths where the air is thin and hope does not exist. It slips between your lungs before it can soothe you.

A picture forms you haven’t dared to assemble until now.

And it makes tears well in your eyes. Pain stabbing and stabbing and stabbing your heart to death. You blink furiously, unwilling to let them fall. You can’t look at him. Not even closely.

Bucky told you about his mother and sister. He told you that your mother sent them away for their own safety. But he didn’t tell you why they were in danger in the first place.

Now you understand.

Your heart races, seeming to try and outrun the collapse of your world. It hammers against your ribs like fists on a locked door. The more it hammers, the more chaotic it gets, beating to the tempo of misery.

“No,” you whisper, lips wobbling. Tears cling to your lashes. Your chest heaves with the effort to breathe through the pain.

Bucky’s brows are deeply furrowed. His eyes never left you, teeth grinding together. His features are full of a struggle he tries to break out of.

Bucky Barnes was a soldier, abandoned by the kingdom he served, betrayed by the very man who should have protected him. And worse, threatened into silence by the safety of his family.

“No,” you repeat, the word a single quiver. “Your mother, and- and your sister-”

Bucky’s head drops. His hand moves over his hair. His breath leaves him with a harsh, strained sound.

Your father has threatened them, using their lives as leverage to keep Bucky silent about whatever horrors he had endured. Because exposing the truth would have cost Bucky everything he held dear.

Bucky’s eyes are the confirmation of what you are already puzzling together.

And you can’t look at him any longer. A choking sound leaves you. Your gaze moves to the flames of the fire lazily flickering upwards into the sky. The heat sears in your eyes but you don’t look away.

If you weren’t sitting already, you’d be lying on the ground by now. Your muscles are unsure whether to hold firm or buckle under the pressure. A tremor starts in your knees, making its way upward like a warning your body already understands.

How could the man you once idolized be capable of such cruelty? And how has Bucky borne it all, carrying all of this silently, without breaking?

Shame prickles under your ribs, seeping through every breath. It’s like a slow erosion happening inside you. A sense that you are both too much and never enough. You burn, consumed by something that leaves no smoke but scars all the same. Each breath fans the flames. No matter how full or brittle.

Bucky’s eyes burn you down and you can’t help but meet them again.

His face is softened in a way you’ve never seen before - not even in those rare moments when his walls seemed to crumble just enough for something warmer. There are shadows in those blues but they lock onto yours with a gentleness that has your muscles trembling.

A tear slips from the corner of your eye and you swipe at it hurriedly. You try desperately to pull your thoughts together, but there is nothing left to be done. The dam has already burst. A sob leaves you.

Another tear follows, streaking down your cheek, hot and bitter, filled with all the hurt that has just been released between you.

“Hey,” Bucky says quietly, a gritted note in his voice full of kindness. “No.”

A large, calloused hand cups your face, his thumb swiping the damp trail across your cheekbone.

The unexpected tenderness makes your breath quake, and more shame creeps onto your skin for having allowed yourself to shatter in the open.

“C’mon don’t do that,” he murmurs under his breath. He sounds pained by the sight of you. The sight of your tears. Again. Like something in him is crying out for an answer to your broken heart.

He leans closer, shifting on the dirty ground, to brush his other hand gently against the side of your jaw, framing your face between rough palms. His palms feel warm in contrast to the hot current running through your body, but he holds on steadily.

Bucky tilts your chin enough for you to meet his gaze, blue irises that grapple with guilt, but also something more subdued. Something soft and real you aren’t sure you even earned from him.

“Don’t cry, sweetheart. Please,” he pleads near a whisper and it rips something off inside you.

The pain in your heart only seems to get stronger. You want to claim him wrong, that if anyone should rightfully feel grief or tears for the pain they carry, it is him. But the words refuse to leave your throat. All that comes is a strangled sound, a whimper, a sob, followed by a few more sweltering tears.

His thumbs continue to diligently brush your cheeks once more, painstakingly slow as if erasing the evidence of your hurt could undo it altogether.

“I mean it, darlin’,” he implores quietly. His voice is still rough. “Don’t.”

It does not feel easy though. You just found out how much has been robbed from him, how your father has contributed to it all, the man who has loomed over your life like a shadow not easily warded off with a single light. The personification of cold judgment.

And still, Bucky is softhearted and steady-eyed against your breaking moment, offering kindness and comfort.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper thickly. “I am so sorry.” Your voice is fractured. It feels inadequate. Hollow. Not enough.

Bucky’s thumbs rest against your temples as if trying to reground you.

He bites down hard on a slightly trembling lip, the muscle in his cheek standing out sharply. For a moment, his eyes seem to look for a distraction somewhere far away, somewhere only he can see.

When they return to you, there is a pool of his own apology shimmering within them, deep enough to drown in.

He releases a gruff breath. “Not on you. This is not your fault, Y/n.” His voice is firm but also breaking with a sorrow he can’t fully express. “Wasn’t exactly easy on you,” he says lowly, gravelly. He clears his throat. “I was wrong. About you.”

You shake your head, still wedged between his hands. Your lips are wobbling, your voice in cracks. “You had every right.”

“No.” His voice is resolute. Tension pulls at his jaw. His brows almost meet each other. He shakes his head, letting his hands slide into your hair. “I didn’t.”

You sniffle. A harsh, wavering breath falls from your lips. A sob crawls up your spine. “I do not blame you for hating me.”

Bucky’s hands against your face go still. They stiffen. He even seems to flinch ever so faintly and it makes you look at him briefly. He bites back a dry swallow as if something wedged there might never leave. Something urgent pulls at his jaw, making it tick.

“I don’t hate you,” he leans his head in, looking you directly in the eyes. “Don’t hate you, princess. Alright? Don’t think that. God, please don’t think that.”

Your hands are still shaking in your lap and Bucky’s own hands fall from your face for an instant so he can trail the pads of his fingers along your wrist.

“I’m the one bein’ sorry, sweetheart.” His voice falters, a huskiness catching in his tone.

Your chest is swollen from the hard work of breathing against its pressure, while new tears still threaten to slip out of the corners of your eyes. But Bucky stays close. Still kneeling right in front of you.

“Look at me, please.”

You do, although your tears blur your vision.

“I’ll say it again,” he murmurs, swallowing dryly. “Please don’t cry, darlin’. Don’t cry.”

His eyes hold the pain he is too broken to voice.

“Yes, you will rise from the ashes, but the burning comes first. For this part, darling, you must be brave.”

- Kalen Dion

Taglist: @cjand10 @unaxv @bellamoret @singsosworld @mrsnikstan @melsunshine @hawkinsavclub1983 @homiesexual-or-homosexual @vvs-dlxodyd

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hyuniemyunie · 20 hours ago

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Jason todd x gn reader˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

doing his makeup!<3

sfw

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

(ФωФ): hes sooooo wifey i love him sm

THIS IS FOR EVERYNYAN. MEN WITH MAKEUP. WOMEN WITH MAKEUP. NONBINARY PPL WITH MAKEUP.

men who do makeup..r..like. so hot. sorry..not sorry..

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･

Jason Todd was many things—an ex-Robin, a vigilante, a walking, talking trauma case—but a guy who let someone put makeup on him? That was where he drew the line.

At least, he had drawn the line. But you had this look in your eyes, that mischievous little sparkle that made it real hard to say no.

“Come on,” you pleaded, holding up a fluffy makeup brush like it was a weapon of mass persuasion. “Just let me do a little bit.”

Jason crossed his arms. “I’m not gonna look like a clown, am I?”

you gasped, placing a hand over your heart in fake offense. “How dare you. I would never make you look bad.”

He squinted at you. “Uh-huh.”

You scooted closer, eyes shining. “Please?”

Jason sighed, already feeling himself caving. “Fine. But if I look ridiculous, I’m making you watch all my shitty old Westerns shows with me.”

You grinned. “Deal.”

And that was how Jason Todd, Gotham’s brooding menace, ended up sitting on the edge of the bed while you happily went to work on his face.

At first, he felt stupid. you started with some primer and foundation, muttering about “undertones” and “coverage” while he sat there like an idiot. Then came the contouring—something about sharpening his cheekbones, which he thought was unnecessary because his cheekbones were already sharp enough to cut glass.

Then you moved to his eyes.

“This is where the magic happens,” you declared, pulling out an eyeshadow palette.

Jason groaned. “I swear to God, if you give me rainbow clown eyes—”

“Shhh,” you hushed him, dusting warm brown and reddish shades onto his lids.

Jason stayed quiet after that, mostly because the feeling of the brush against his skin was oddly relaxing. You blended, added a bit of shimmer at the inner corners, then pulled out the eyeliner.

“Keep still,” you warned.

Jason tried to keep still, but the moment you got close to his eye with that little black pen, his survival instincts kicked in.

You huffed. “You stare down thugs with guns on a nightly basis, but this is where you flinch?”

“It’s a reflex,” Jason grumbled.

you rolled your eyes and cupped his jaw, gently tilting his face. “Look up.”

He did. And maybe—just maybe—he liked the way you were touching him, all soft and careful like he was something delicate.

Once you finished the eyeliner, you moved to mascara. Jason blinked too hard the first time, getting some on his eyelid. You scolded him, wiped it off, and tried again.

Then came the final touch—the lips.

Jason narrowed his eyes as you picked up a tube of lipstick. “No bright red,” he warned.

You rolled your eyes. “I know. Trust me.”

You picked a deep, natural shade and carefully applied it, your thumb tilting his chin to keep him still. When you pulled back, you studied him, eyes wide with satisfaction.

“…Holy shit,” you muttered.

Jason frowned. “What?”

“You look really good.”

Jason snorted. “You’re supposed to say that. You did the makeup.”

“No, but like—really good.” You grabbed your phone and flipped the camera so he could see.

Jason expected to look ridiculous.

Instead…

Oh.

The guy in the reflection wasn’t some overgrown crime alley stray. His skin looked flawless, his cheekbones more defined, his blue eyes sharp. The eyeliner made them pop, the mascara darkened his lashes just enough, and the lip color—damn.

He turned his head slightly, raising a brow. He looked—

“…I look hot,” Jason muttered, genuinely surprised.

You burst out laughing. “I told you!”

Jason kept staring at himself, tilting his head like he was studying a piece of art. “…I look like I could scam rich men out of their fortunes.”

You snorted. “You totally could.”

Jason leaned closer to the mirror. “This is bullshit. Why does this work?”

You smirked, resting your chin on his shoulder. “Because, babe, I’m the one who did it.”

Jason gave you a sideways glance. “…So you’re saying if I let you do this every time, I could be the prettiest crime-fighting menace in Gotham?”

You grinned. “Oh, absolutely.”

Jason hummed. “Huh.”

He turned back to the mirror, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully.

“…So how do I take selfies?”

Jason stared at his reflection, turning his face slightly to the side, then back. His sharp jawline looked even sharper under the contour, the dark eyeliner made his blue eyes pop like something out of a painting, and the lip color—deep, natural, and just glossy enough—gave him a dangerous kind of charm.

You watched him with barely contained laughter, chin resting on his shoulder. Oh, he was eating this up.

“So,” you drawled, watching his expression shift between admiration and disbelief. “What do you think?”

Jason exhaled through his nose, tilting his head again like he was analyzing a priceless artifact.

“…I look like I scam rich men for a living,” he muttered.

You grinned. “And you’d be good at it.”

Jason let out a soft, amused scoff, still not looking away from the mirror. You could see the way his brain was working—turning over the fact that he, Jason Todd, could be pretty in a way he hadn’t really considered before.

His fingers brushed over his jaw. “This is bullshit.”

You snorted. “What’s bullshit? That I made you look hot?”

“That it works,” he grumbled, squinting at himself like the makeup had personally betrayed him. “I mean, I expected to look like some try-hard clown, not—” He gestured vaguely at his face. “—whatever this is.”

“A masterpiece?” you supplied helpfully.

Jason shot you a look, but there was no real bite to it. He was too busy admiring his reflection.

You grabbed your phone and flipped the camera, holding it up. “Wanna take some selfies?”

Jason hesitated. His instinct was probably to say no, but you could see the little flicker of consideration in his eyes.

“…If you send them to Dick, I’ll throw your phone off a building.”

“Duh,” you said, like that should’ve been obvious. “These are for us. For documentation. For history. For—”

Jason rolled his eyes, but you caught the way his lips twitched like he was fighting a smile.

“…Fine.”

You gasped dramatically. “Did the Jason Todd just agree to take selfies?”

“Shut up and take the damn picture.”

You beamed and held the phone up, making sure the lighting was just right before snapping a couple of shots. Jason barely even tried to pose, but he didn’t need to—his natural sharpness, the way he glanced sideways at the camera with that slight, lazy smirk, made him look effortlessly cool.

After a few shots, you checked the photos, grinning. “Okay, but you actually look so good.”

Jason leaned over, eyes scanning the images. His expression softened for just a second before he covered it up with faux nonchalance. “Yeah, yeah. You’re just saying that ‘cause you did the makeup.”

“No,” you said seriously, nudging his arm. “I mean it. You’re gorgeous, Jay.”

Jason blinked, caught off guard. He cleared his throat, looking away like you hadn’t just turned him into putty with one sentence. “…You’re so full of shit.”

You just grinned.

“Alright,” Jason sighed, stretching his arms above his head. “Time to wash this off before I start getting ideas.”

You gasped. “What kind of ideas?”

Jason smirked, standing up and flexing dramatically. “I dunno. Maybe I should start conning rich old ladies.”

“Oh my god.”

“I could be Gotham’s prettiest crime lord. Make Bruce’s life a living hell.”

You laughed, standing up with him. “I knew this would go to your head.”

Jason slung an arm around your shoulder, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Your fault, babe.”

And yeah—maybe it was your fault. But looking at Jason now, with his newfound appreciation for just how good he could look, you couldn’t bring yourself to regret it.

Jason wasn’t one to fuss over things like makeup. Sure, it had turned out better than expected—hell, he’d even admit (to you, and only you) that he looked good—but after a few selfies and some teasing, he was ready to wash it off and go back to his usual, rugged, Gotham-worn self.

At least, that was the plan.

You, however, had different ideas.

Jason stood in front of the bathroom mirror, rolling up his sleeves as he turned the sink on. His reflection stared back at him—still sharp-jawed, still intense-eyed, but softened just a bit by the expertly blended makeup you’d applied. He reached for a towel when, suddenly—

SMOOCH.

A pair of lips landed on his cheek, warm and deliberate.

Jason froze. “What are you—”

SMOOCH. Another one, this time dangerously close to his jaw.

“Babe—”

SMOOCH. SMOOCH. SMOOCH.

He turned just in time for you to attack with another kiss, smacking your lips dramatically against his face. Jason stumbled back against the sink, hands bracing himself as you grabbed fistfuls of his shirt to keep him in place.

“Alright, alright!” he laughed, hands coming up to ward you off. “What the hell has gotten into you?”

You grinned up at him, smug as hell. “Just appreciating my work before it all goes to waste.”

Jason gave you a suspicious look, but when he wiped his cheek with the back of his hand—his eyes widened.

A bright red lipstick stain smeared across his knuckles.

He turned back to the mirror.

Oh, shit.

There were marks everywhere. Little red imprints covered his cheeks, his jawline, his nose, and—he rubbed his lips together, realizing you’d definitely gotten him there too. His mouth was slightly smudged, like he’d either been thoroughly kissed or had just finished robbing a bank with Harley Quinn.

Jason looked back at you, you looked way too pleased with yourself.

“Are you serious?” Jason groaned, rubbing at his face. The lipstick refused to budge.

“Very.” You crossed your arms, proud of your masterpiece. “I think it suits you.”

Jason ran a hand down his face. “I look like I got mauled by a very aggressive valentine.”

“You look loved,” you corrected sweetly, batting your lashes.

Jason exhaled through his nose, staring at you like he was this close to enacting revenge. Then, with zero warning, he grabbed you by the waist, hoisting you up onto the bathroom counter.

“Jay—”

You barely had time to react before he pressed his face all over yours—cheeks, nose, forehead, even down to your neck—rubbing against you like a damn cat.

You squealed, trying to push him off. “Jason, no—!”

“What?” he murmured, voice smug and low against your ear. “You don’t wanna match?”

You huffed, knowing damn well he was transferring all those lipstick marks onto your face. When he finally pulled back, he took a second to admire his work.

You glared at him. “You’re an ass.”

Jason smirked, running his thumb over your now-stained cheek. “You love me.”

You tried to look annoyed, but the way he was looking at you—smug, sure, but with that soft glint in his blue eyes—made it impossible to stay mad.

You sighed dramatically. “Yeah, yeah.”

Jason chuckled, leaning down to press a much gentler, slower kiss to your lips. This time, neither of you cared about the mess.

#jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd x y/n #red hood #red hood x reader #red hood x you #red hood x y/n #dc x reader #gn reader #gender neutral reader #gn!reader

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didalexiabreakupwitholgaisback · 1 day ago

Note

Can you please give us your full match breakdown if you have the time? I love reading your thoughts and it helps me learn so much about the game.

hi anon - thanks! okay, here are my general thoughts below the cut:

tl;dr it's not a castrophic loss but if you look at the trend of league matches, we saw it coming. february is the one month we have to get our shit together before the champions knockout matches start! so there's more to learn from a loss than a win at this stage! this is do or die time for pere 🙏

so we have to note that it's the first home loss ever at estadi johan cruyff and it was against levante, a team that i've discussed a lot on my blog as being an example of a good team that has fallen from grace. it's women's team budget was cut and the team sold off all its top players, and levante is now facing potential relegation in the league.

this is a levante who fired its previous coach (who is facing serious allegations against him) and so you could say that levante has that "new coach bounce" feeling about them. they had a gameplan (low block and attack on counter) and they executed it well.

with that background, it was obvious that pere would be playing the "b" team, meaning mostly squad players. now when we talk about rotation in the team and that includes using bench players for matches against these lower ranked teams. they need to get minutes and game time and these are the "safer" matches to play. because at the end of the day, thankfully there's really no major consequence to the loss here but we know more about what areas the squad need to work on.

having said that, pere got his tactics wrong with this line-up. it felt like they hadn't played together and weren't on the same page with each other. now even when you play your "b" team, they should at least be able to anticipate each's others runs and be unified in the plan to break down a low block. that didn't happen here tonight and that's on pere with a lack of training against this type of defense from the opposition.

as evidence of that, there were too many moments when passes were mishit because of lack of anticipation of player runs or a player was on a run and then had to double back because the player with the ball was a step behind and they had to catch up. the reason we practise rondos and these small sided drills it to minimise this. but i saw way too much sloppiness today.

we need to be more disciplined. you saw errant passes or shots on goals when our players were getting frustrated, either due to a lack of calls by the referee or after time wasting by levante. you can't let opposition tactics get under your skin like that.

can pere please rest aitana for once? you can't start aitana and play her for 90+ minutes match after match and expect her to be effective as a leader for this "b" team. the same goes to caro who has just come back from injury. having said that, they had some great crosses, but we couldn't finish them...

by that same token, you can't throw on alexia and ewa and expect them to clean up your mess if the tactics are messed up from the start.

this is the most extreme example of what we have been battling with all season. there were so many matches with a weak first half and where we didn't score until the second half or get our flow going until the second half. it was too little, too late tonight.

we need to be more clinical on finishing. salma missed chances, aitana missed chances, esmee missed chances, kika missed chances, alexia missed chances. caro missed chances. it wasn't flowing for anyone. this has likewise been an issue since the beginning of the season. 47 shots and only 1 goal to show for it is unacceptable!

and to drill down on scoring, we need to be better on set pieces like corners and free kicks. we had 18 corners, 18! you can't have that many opportunities and not capitalise on them!

i can't put this loss on ellie but this is why we need more reps for her because we need to build up her confidence so that she's in total command of the defense and we don't have incidents like the second goal. by that token, not a great defensive performance. we can't ball watch and we need a better understanding as a unit. engen was okay in the first half and had a few mistakes in the second. but patri is injured and it doesn't help engen to say she's washed and be overly critical. just like everyone else, there are areas where she can improve too!

anyway, like cata says, with this team to the death, so let's watch the game tape back and make damn hell sure that we are learning from this! 🙏

#post match thoughts #fcb femení #levante ud #futfem #woso #cata coll

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felassan · 2 days ago

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Some more DA:TV and related snippets from Sylvia Feketekuty, Part 5. rest of post under a cut due to length and spoilers. [Post One, Post Two, Post Three, Post Four]

Sylvia Feketekuty: "I agree, the Necropolis IS gorgeous, I was blessed with wonderful level artists, lighting artists, and a fantastic LD who poured their hearts into making it it." [source]

Sylvia: ""But what does Manfred think about Spite?" Good question. Manfred is curious, as always, and can probably sense Spite's on his own plane of existence (in other words, another spirit.) But Manfred also doesn't have a greatly evolved sense of danger, he might not understand Spite's "moodier" moments. I also think Manfred isn't as sophisticated a spirit as Spite at the start of the game. (Though don't let Emmrich catch you saying that!)" [source, two]

Sylvia on Emmrich: "He was a team effort, and I have to especially thank the writers and editors for their early feedback that helped shape him. Emmrich wouldn't have worked as well otherwise." [source]

Sylvia: "it's a huge honour to work on a character who's someone's favorite anything, let alone romance. (Huge props to Allegra, her actor, who just got Josie right away.)" [source]

Sylvia: ""With Cassandra being our only POV into Nevarra" Poor Cassandra. (Emmrich has such respect for her uncle's books!) "There's a lot of deep respect and empathy for all the ways people relate with death and I appreciate it"" Thanks, that was something I'd so hoped would come through." [source]

Sylvia: "It really was a team that brought Emmrich, the Necropolis, and the rest of its guardians to life, I know everyone would be thrilled to know you enjoyed it so much." [source]

User: "Emmrich's fear of mortality really hit hard. Some of those lines are etched into my heart now. Thanks to everyone who helped put that deeply relatable and human experience into the game" // Sylvia: "It was kind of the core of Emmrich, writing the part where he opens up about his fears, so thank you for sharing that, it means a lot." [source]

Sylvia: "I loved writing the MW branches and letting people be a nerdier flavour of Rook with Emmrich." [source]

User: "Nevarra, Mourn Watch and in particular Emmrich's personal missions were amazing! The whimsical and the grotesque in perfect balance. When I replay next year I'll be looking forward to those missions the most!" // Sylvia: "Especial praise goes to the level designers for tackling a bunch of complex stuff in those missions as we planned them out." [source]

Sylvia: "I think we can all agree Emmrich might be a touch eccentric, but I really wanted his interests and compassionate outlook to be heartfelt, so this is lovely to hear." [source]

User: "I was so nervous about the whole Necropolis gang as I have PTSD and a major fear of death. So when Emmrich confided in Rook about his own fear, I was struck with such an unexpected comfort. I've never heard someone describe my own fears and how they make me feel so perfectly." // Sylvia: "Thank you, Bibi. It's a very familiar fear for me as well, and I find sometimes talking about it can ease things. So I'm very glad to hear Emmrich's thoughts on it were helpful for you." [source]

Sylvia: "I like a good sinister necromancer, but really wanted to try something different with the Mourn Watch, something more akin to a sacred duty." [source]

Sylvia on the Necropolis: "The concept, lighting, and level artists, and the level designer, did so much cool stuff there IMO. Seeing it with the final art and lighting in for the first time was a thrill for me too." [source]

User: "special thanks for the Terry Pratchett references in the form and speech of Vorgoth. I don't know exactly whose idea it was, but it was great!" // Sylvia: "Aw thank you so much! Re: Terry Pratchett: oh man, I read nearly every Discworld book multiple times, absolute favorites growing up." [source]

User: "I kinda of assumed that Emmrich just calculates age in academia terms, so no matter how many physical years old your Rook is, you're just a tiny baby who hasn't completed a necromancy phd. "When I was your age" = "When I was a TA."" // Sylvia: "Yes, yes that math checks out." [source]

User on Emmrich: "how refreshing it was to have an argument with a LI that’s specific to their relationship. It gives the characters such texture and dimension!" // Sylvia: "Aw thank you! I liked the tone range we ended up having between everyone, it was more rewarding to do." [source]

User: "Would you guys ever expand more on Nevarra and its culture? I loved seeing the Necropolis, and hope we revisit it. But I'll be honest when I say it made me curious what life in Nevarra is like, and how infused Nevarra's Mortalitasi are with average Nevarran life." // Sylvia: "Since I've left the company, that's not really in my hands, so there's not much I can say. But I get what you mean, because the Mourn Watch are a subbranch of the Mortalitasi with a very special field of study and service. We don't really get much about everyday Nevarra. So whoever tackles that in the future, if they ever do: I think that could be neat. Lots of room to explore different dynamics and customs!" [source, two]

User: "I adore Emmrich, he's so sweet & so thoughtful! I especially adore his love for flowers, and I personally interpreted that as a hint from the writers (you!) that choosing to embrace his fleeting mortality, like the fleeting beauty of flowers, was his "good" path - is that correct? What's your take?" // Sylvia: "I tried really hard to make either choice feel like it could be the right one for him, because I wanted it to be more about a player's own interpretation-and their relationship with him-than author fiat hinting at which one is correct. Also thank you for the kind words! I really liked writing Emmrich enthusing about flowers." [source, two] // User: "He's such a charming character, the vibes of him and Josephine are among some of my favorites in the series, thank you for helping to shape them and for being kind enough to answer my question! Do you, personally, have a preference for which choice Emmrich makes? It's a tough call to make in game!" // Sylvia: "I'm afraid, like a coward, I've not stated a preference because I don't want to accidentally influence people into thinking one was right or not. I'm also in a weird place where as the person writing him, my thoughts are far less subjective in weird recursive ways. If that makes sense." [source]

User: "do you have a favorite flower? It was such a lovely detail in Emmrich's character and it warms my heart to know writing that was enjoyable for you" // Sylvia: "It kind of changes depending on what's growing during the season, but while it's very common, you can't beat the scent of a rose. (Fond of lilacs too)" [source]

User: "Did you have any role in Manfred's wisp being lilac when/if you bring him back? That detail made me bawl 😭 Manfred was so shaped by "living" with Emmrich that his essence became Em's favorite color?! The only wisp we see to do so?" // Sylvia: "I wish! I actually don't know who did that. I'd assume that colour was chosen by one of our animators, or maybe the LD, so perhaps they added in that detail, which is adorable. (Carly, Derek Wilks, was this either of you?)" [source] // Derek Wilks: "I think that was someone in VFX actually!" [source]

Sylvia: "Glad you enjoyed the graveyard date, our animators and music director did wonders there." [source]

User: "Can you give us any hints on when Dorian spent some time at the necropolis? I need to know their circumstances for science (how old was Dorian back then? I could imagine he had a crush on the professor lol)" // Sylvia: "I'm going to chicken out and not pin that down (sorry.) Since I've left BW, my answer would be even more non-canonical than usual, because that would've been something I'd have wanted to talk over with the other writers. But by that same token, nothing I've said invalidates what you want to imagine." [source]

Sylvia on Emmrich: "I am flattered to hear he has become a favorite romance, the team went all out on him." [source] // Sylvia: "So many people worked on those scenes: animation, art, audio, the editors, and huge kudos to his actor Nick Borraine." [source]

Sylvia: "I THINK Emmrich is 6'2 or 6'3, but you'd need a character artist to confirm." [source]

User: "Do the necromancers of the Grand Necropolis have their own sort of culture? Like perhaps their own rituals for marriage, courting, etc.?" // Sylvia: "Hrm. Good question. I'm sure they have some individual quirks and traditions, like any long-running institution. But they probably don't deviate unrecognizably from the mortalitasi norm." [source]

Sylvia: ""i also played a trans rook, and some of emmrich's content for a romanced trans rook made for probably some of the best romance content of all time for me." That's so nice to hear, and I must give credit to some trans people who kindly took the time to give me feedback that made those lines better." [source]

User: "1) are Tevinter exchange students like Dorian common? 2) what are some of the other fraternities of the Mortalitasi? 3) do members of the Mourn Watch often attend social events with the Nevarran elite like other Mortalitasi?" // Sylvia: "1) Yeah, I think they're not uncommon. I took my inspiration from The Grand Tour, and thought it would make sense if Tevinter sent out some of the wealthier scions to see the world a little, pick up a few new spells. [link] 2) I'm afraid I've deliberately left this one blank, for future people to fill in if/when the need arises. Emmrich complains about the palace necromancers, so we do know there's a special cadre of mortalitasi running the show over there. 3. Absolutely. The MW are pretty prestigious in Nevarra with their running the Grand Necropolis. Much as Emmrich dislikes politics himself, there's probably a lot going on at the top." [source, two, three]

User: "Do you think Lich Emmrich would eventually be told by the Lich Lords to sever his mortal ties and return with them to the depths of the Necropolis? It seems like he’s willing to break all their rules to keep Rook with him" // Sylvia: "I'm afraid defining Emmrich's duties/responsibilities/required conduct as a lich would very much be something I'd leave up to the future (even if I were still at BW.) Kind of too big a topic for me to want to speculate here." [source]

User: "did you have a hand in designing how emmrich looks?" // Sylvia: "Yep, I gave feedback as his design progressed. Our concept artists really got him very early on, though, so it was smaller stuff." [source] // User: "was he at all inspired by Peter Cushing & his hammer film characters? He really gives off van Helsing vibes to me" // Sylvia: "Time permitting I want to do a post on influences, but you got it in one exactly. It was specifically the Hammer films I was thinking about!" [source] // User: "would Rudolph van Richten from Curse of Strahd be on his list of influences?" // Sylvia: "I'm afraid, to my shame, I never read much of the core Ravenloft books, so that one's a no." [source]

User: "I needed you to know that Emmerich's conversation in the Memorial Gardens about his thanaphobia really got me. I could never put the words together of what thanaphobia feels like, and his description is perfect." // Sylvia: "It's a familiar feeling to me as well, and I'm glad it rang true." [source]

User: "I've got a really severe death phobia that's been flaring recently, and emmrich's conversation about it captured the feeling perfectly and helped lessen the weight for me" // Sylvia: "I find at least discussing it can ease it, sometimes, so I'm very glad to hear getting to know Emmrich helped in that way." [source]

Sylvia: "Hezenkoss was a blast to write so I'm glad she clicked for you. "preposterous is what you wore to a bog, Orlesian" Oh wow, Skywatcher! It's been an age, so glad that line stuck with you. That takes me back!" [source]

Sylvia: ""And yet I ask the question - what attracts Emmerich to the Hand? Yes, the answer is “perseverance”, but I think this is not fully explored." Do you mean the Hand of Glory specifically? He's intrigued and disturbed by the magic around it, which is why he hones on it, even before he knows its origin" [source]

Sylvia: ""I was wondering if you could tell us about his & Manfred's first meeting or notable moments in their friendship?" This feels like something I'd probably want to leave more to the imagination. And because I'm not a BW anymore, answers would be even more non-canonical than normal. All that said, for some reason, I always pictured Emmrich being alone in the Necropolis the first time Manfred's wisp floated up to him to peer at what he was doing. It just seems a little more poignant that way." [source, two]

Sylvia: "All credit to the team, especially the writers and editors who gave feedback that made [Emmrich] so much better during those early days and beyond." [source]

User: "me + a handful of people were wondering about non-mage mourn watchers! id love to hear your notes/thoughts about them! b/c i didnt remember hearing how they become MW or if reaper uses death magic!" // Sylvia: "Sure! Not much to say, though, I think the MW is likely a mage majority fraternity that accepts a few non-mages who have exceptional skills and temperaments sympathetic to the Necropolis. A warrior of great renown, a rogue of exceptional stealth and quiet, a baby found down there in a grave, and so forth. They'd certainly undergo the same kind of oaths and bindings every Watcher goes through. I always pictured them being provided with the best enchanted gear the MW has to offer too." [source, two]

User: "Hi! About Emmerich being a professor—does he teach at a Circle, or is he specifically a professor to other MWers and Mortalitasi? It seems like the MW has some sort of official schooling for its members since he regularly takes on students each year, could you comment on that at all?" // Sylvia: ""It seems like the MW has some sort of official schooling for its members since he regularly takes on students each year, could you comment on that at all? " Sure, but I think you have it, the MW seems to want to raise well-rounded students with a classical education on top of magecraft. In my mind, it was because they saw every MW as representing the Grand Necropolis, so of course they wanted its members to have training in etiquette and history and generally be able to move in polite society." [source, two]

User: "If I remember correctly, we only really see Emmrich use necromantic magic in-game. Are there other types of magic (elemental, healing/spirit, etc) that you think he would gravitate toward?" // Sylvia: "Hrm. He does have a bit of healing magic, mechanically in combat. It coudl work, but somehow I don't think Emmrich would ever be a high-level healer. He could maybe get the basics but it's not his great gift. Something about the gravic magic of the force mage specialty feels appropriate though." [source]

Sylvia: ""would it be possible for a (romanced) MW Rook join Emmrich in linchdom, eventually?" Yes: Rook can try, bc it's not forbidden to seek the knowledge out. (Emmrich makes it clear Hezenkoss pieced some of it together herself, so we've also seen another mage get it almost-right) It is very hard and probably takes decades to accomplish (and of course, there's no guarantee Rook would survive.) But everything written in game points to there being a chance." [source, two]

User: "I’ve been thinking a little about it and I know it’s mentioned in the game he would be interested in visiting - but how would Emmrich feel about visiting the Avvar in the south? They are one of the few groups that show respect for spirits in a similar way and I imagine he’d have a lot of questions." // Sylvia: "He'd probably love it. He'd be fascinated by their relationship with spirits, in the ways it mirrors and deviates from the Mourn Watchers' own practices. (I imagine there is also like a 15% chance he gets into a heated argument with one of them over a fine point of how spirits work exactly.)" [source]

User: "congratulations on another achievement, Emmrich took the silver trophy" // Sylvia: "I was so excited to see we'd gotten the silver trophy! I hope everyone who worked on him sees that." [source]

User: "Is there anywhere we can follow your future work after this account gets shut down ?" // Sylvia: "TBH I'll probably just reopen it it there's any cool news to share since I don't have a website or anything. (I THINK I can just reactivate it?)" [source]

User: "Thank you for Lady Josephine Cherette Montilyet, emmrich, Liara and Leigon!!!!" // Sylvia: "Thank you! (I should mention I was only a part of Legion in ME3 - specifically the N7 mission into the Geth Consensus. Great fun to work on that level though.)" [source]

Sylvia: "I'm lucky to have had the chance to bring Emmrich and Josephine to you all with the rest of the team." [source]

Sylvia: ""I still remember when you introduced yourself on old BSN when Lair of the Shadow Broker came out." Wow, you're right I did! That is a blast from the past. Thank you for the kind words!" [source]

User: "Just wanted to say thank you for all the amazing characters you helped bring to life in DA and ME. I really enjoyed Emmrich and Hezenkoss in DAV. The dynamic between them really made me laugh" // Sylvia: "Thanks! That was one of my favorite pairs to write, the history between them meant everything was always a little more personal, which is always fun." [source]

Sylvia: "Thanks Janette, loved writing Hollix." [source]

User: "Elements of Emmerich's costume resemble the Cerberus logo from ME. Is this just a reference or is there something more to it?" // Sylvia: "Gee, I can't say for sure because I didn't make it, but I'd assume that one's just a coincidence (since the Mourn Watch and Necropolis use hexagonal shapes as their primary shape language)" [source]

User: "I can just tell how well Emmrich is written along his fear. I lost my fear of death and dying as I began to honor the dead." // Sylvia: "I do think talking and thinking about these things more than we normally do helps eases the fear." [source]

Sylvia: "Thank you for these lovely thoughts. I did read some books about different customs around death, and I know a little about pagan/occult/magic practices (in a very basic and generalist sense.) So it doesn't surprise me per se, but I am very glad to hear getting to know Emmrich was a positive thing. And I'm also very glad to hear he's someone you feel you can take into the future with you as a helpful friend." [source, two]

Sylvia: ""Does Emmrich have any guilty pleasures?" Huh. Excellent question. I should really be more decisive about my own character, but while I think that could be fun, I'm not sure what it would be. "Oh one other question , is there a part of thedas you wish you could of explored but wasn't able to be in game?" I've always been interested in the sinister sounding Sea of Ash. What goes on over there???" [source, two]

User: "i have a silly little question bc i also love emmrich. was his scene revealing lichdom to everyone meant to parallel a trans coming out or was that accidental? because i felt on an existential level the thrill of revealing who you are, but also fearing people would be afraid or treat you differently. (and then there's strife discussions, and putting up a glamour some places but not others, and the blooming but gentle self-confidence... he is very transgender to me)" // Sylvia: "Not a silly question at all! After writing the scene I wondered if people would see similarities because of those overlapping themes you pointed out: the dignity of bodily self-determination, revealing your true self to those you love, fear of rejection, hope for acceptance. But during the writing, I mostly approached becoming undead as its own thing, because I wanted to ground it in the MW's particular philosophy. I think there's parallels because of the way the human personal is universal, if that makes sense. That said, if this does feel very transgender to you or anyone else (or not), I'm not against varied interpretations. That's one of the cool things about seeing people actually get their hands on your work." [source, two, three]

User: "I'm not sure what Emmrich's hairstyle is, slickback?" // Sylvia: "Good question. Afraid I don't know what it'd be called either. Googling it, slickback LOOKS correct?" [source]

User: "Emmrich has definitely developed a special bond with Bellara and Lucanis, and yet, both of them don't comment on his relationship with Rook! What would you say their reaction was? Their banter was so good I'm sure we'd all love to know what Emmrich had to say!" // Sylvia: "Ah, that one I'm afraid I can't answer since I'm not their writer, and that would've been something I would've discussed with the narrative team together. Sorry!" [source]

Sylvia: "Nick was indeed brilliant!" [source]

User: "Ive got quite bad thanatophobia and Emmerich's writing is one of the only times I've seen that dealt with actually respectfully." // Sylvia: "Thanks very much! I've experienced that fear, and I suspect it's way more common than we think, and I'm glad to hear it felt that way to you." [source]

User: "My HOF was a spirit healer, very kind & very curious, & for years I've considered how that special connection to spirits might lend itself to an interest in Thedan necromancy & puzzling out where spirits & souls begin & end. Emmrich, Manfred/Curiosity and the wisps gave me so much to think about!" // Sylvia: "that's interesting about your HOF. They may've found some kindred spirits if they ever ventured further north." [source]

User: [was] "Dorian was taken over by a nominated writer for veilguard or if his legacy was more of a team effort ?" // Sylvia: "Dorian was in the capable hands of Writer Chee" [source]

User: "I’m also dying to know what Emmrich did during Rook's stint in the prison-my thought is he not only did the majority of the work on finding Rook, but in leading the team, prob finishing touches on the dagger clone, keeping the team together in Rook’s absence while barely holding himself together at times" // Sylvia: "I think he was indeed having some very sleepless, guilt-wracked nights, working himself too hard, and trying his best on that dagger." [source]

User: "I just wanted to tell you that I love Emmrich's part of the lighthouse the books the fact that it's right next to rook's room and that johanna is in it later and that you can talk to her" // Sylvia: "Thank you! I love what the level artist there did, it's such a cozy den of a place. And I'm glad you liked meeting Hezenkoss afterwards, all praise to the level and tech designers who got her in there." [source]

User: "Are the Watchers overall vegetarian, or was it a personal preference Emmrich developed?" // Sylvia: "I think it's a thing among some Watchers, but not all. Because they think a lot about life and death and the cycle of life, and their place in it, and what constitutes a death they feel comfortable with or not. My actual, original inspiration for it was from an old Call of Cthulhu TRPG book about Miskatonic University, set in the 1920s. There was a great little detail about the campus having a cafeteria that serves vegetarians. And when I read it, I got a little jolt because I was so used to vegetarianism in North America being portrayed as a relatively modern movement. But of COURSE there's always exceptions and cultural enclaves and so on. Just one of those moments you feel your understanding of what we were up to in the past shift a little, even if it felt obvious in retrospect." [source, two, three, four]

Sylvia re: writing Manfred: "Yep, Manfred was my guy too." [source]

Sylvia: "I'm glad you enjoyed meeting our gentleman necromancer. (Full credit to the great feedback I got from the other writers and editors early on, he wouldn't be as good without them.)" [source]

User: "I was curious I know none of emmrich's serious relationships ended up panning out But like did any of them get to the point that him and his partner at the time shared a living space I'm wondering if emmrich has ever lived with anyone besides manfred" // Sylvia: "That's an interesting question. Like a coward I will hedge my bets, but I could MAYBE see a few. Not many though." [source]

#dragon age: the veilguard #dragon age the veilguard spoilers #dragon age: dreadwolf #dragon age 4 #the dread wolf rises #da4 #dragon age #bioware #video games #long post #longpost #cassandra pentaghast #my lady paladin #dragon age 5 #lgbtq #mass effect #dragon age: tevinter nights #strife

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languid-bones · 23 hours ago

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Murderbot 3D Print Part 3 - FILES!!!

It's what many of you have been waiting for! THE 3D FILES!

The price??? It's free!

That's a lie, the price is actually that you send me pictures of the results so I can have the joy of seeing what you all make. (I mean it, this is a threat)

Based on comments so far, it seems like this will be the first dive into 3D printing and figure painting for some people so I'll go through some of my approach to give you an idea of how I got to this result.

This is actually my first time sculpting, printing and then painting something to completion, so I am not experienced and you can totally do it too. As you may see from my blog I am primarily a digital artist and I occasionally do gouache and ink work, I have literally never painted or sculpted a figure before. (This counts as foreshadowing if you run into any problems with my files lmao)

Sculpting:

I sculpted the model in Nomad Sculpt on my Ipad and tidied things up in blender. I am still a massive beginner with sculpting so I incorporated pieces from some other freely available models to assist me (these are credited in the listing with the model). You don't have to worry about this part!

Printing:

I printed this on my MARS ELEGOO 2 printer. The settings I used for my print are included on the model listing; with these settings the model took about 7.5 hours to print.

The Files

I have uploaded 3 different file formats, a .stl, a .chitubox and a .ctb. An stl is the basic 3D model on its own, it can be opened in most 3D software if you are looking to edit it and it can be imported into any slicing software (slicing is the process of cutting any model into layers for the printer). If you use this file you will have to add the supports to the model yourself (supports are very important in preventing catastrophic print failure).

The .chitubox and .ctb files are specifically from the slicing program I use which is chitubox. The .chitubox program is for the model with the supports for printing attached and the .ctb file is the sliced file that is ready for the printer. VERY IMPORTANT TO NOTE is that these two files are sized and prepared based on my 3D printer dimensions. If you want to use these files, I recommend checking either files in chitubox (and have it set up for the model printer you will be using) and checking the size before going ahead with printing. If the size is too big for your printer you will have to resize the model and add the supports again but you can use the files I have supplied as reference.

I specifically used Chitubox 64 for this as Chitubox basic hates me and won't slice the model so it is solid inside. Printing something solid is easier to print than printing it hollow and trying to cure the resin trapped inside/drain the model (uncured resin is nasty nasty and will also generate gas that builds up pressure and will crack your print).

I recommend using either the basic stl for printing or starting with the .chitubox file and setting up the slicing settings by yourself. The ctb is a good reference for how things should look but probably not the best starting point to guarantee a successful print. If you add supports yourself, I recommend looking up some youtube videos on how to properly support a model, and what parts of a model need the most support and avoiding visible marks on your models from supports.

Post-Printing

Its important to clean and cure your print properly after its done, but if you are getting it done at the library or somewhere else you may not have to worry about this.

To remove the supports I used a heat gun to warm and soften the resin supports and little clippers my friends use for gundam to cut them as flush to the model as possible.

The next thing you want to do is sanding, sand down the marks from the supports, any lines or imperfections from the printing. Resin is relatively soft so this is not hard. I personally bought some cheap sandpaper that went from 400-1000 grit, glued it to icecream sticks, disposable knives and some flat toothpick things and used that to get into small crevices. Sand with wet paper to prevent resin dust going everywhere.

Painting

After sanding I sprayed the model with a primer, I specifically used Mr. Finishing Surfacer 1500 in white. This was my choice simply because its what my local gundam store had and I chose white because I didn't want to use a darker base coat that I had to lighten for the armor (simply put most of the model is white and white is a pain in the ass to paint opaquely)

After this I went in with my standard run-of-the-mill acrylic paints. The key to getting a smooth finish with no brush marks and lumps is to thin/smooth out the paint a little with water and build up the colour in layers.

I painted my base colours (white for the armor, black for the shoes and visor and a dark grey for the suit underneath the armor). To get a cool beaten-up effect I laid some light blue into areas on the armor where shadows would fall, after that I dabbed panel line accent colour which gets into the crevices and lines of the print and accents them (you can also just use really watered down black paint for this, I was lucky to borrow supplies from a warhammer 40k friend). I also covered parts of the armor with it and rubbed it off for a grimy effect and then dabbed some brown paint in for extra colour variation. I then came in and dry-brushed some lighter colours on the dark areas and fixed up the white where I wanted it brighter.

Then finally I coated the whole thing in a matte varnish to protect it and it was done!! My own Murderbot completed!!

Hopefully if you haven't done something like this before, this helps you get started There are dozens and dozens of great tutorials out there for more info or if you want to take your design in a different direction to mine.

Most importantly?? Have fun!!

If you have any issues or questions feel free to message me and we can work on it together!

#murderbot #the murderbot diaries #murderbot fanart #3d printing

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loverslantern · 1 day ago

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The Hunter and The Witch~ Dean Winchester x f!reader

Description: John realises where the demon will strike next so they head there to stop the next killing.

Warnings: Cannon violence

Word Count: 4.6k

Salvation

(Masterlist, Previous chapter, Outfit Board)

The room is filled with John’s research. The walls are covered with post-its, pictures, newspaper articles, weather charts, and hieroglyphics all about the yellow-eyed demon. There are papers strewn across the desk with the Colt and shelves of hefty books lining the walls. “You know to anyone else this would look like a psychotic break,” I think aloud, examining the wall of information. “Well—”

“Whatever stupid comment you’re going to make, don’t,” John cuts me off. I make a face he cannot see, mocking him.

“This is it,” he continues. “This is everything I know. Look, our whole lives we’ve been searching for this demon right? Not a trace, just…nothing. Until about a year ago. For the first time, I picked up a trail.”

“And that’s when you took off,” Dean concludes. He hasn’t stopped pacing since we got here.

“Yeah, that’s right. The demon must have come out of hiding, or hibernation.”

“Alright so what’s this trail you found?” he asks.

“It starts in Arizona, then New Jersey, California. Houses burned down to the ground,” he explains. “It's going after families, just like it went after us.” “Families with infants?” Sam asks, leaning against a counter. “Yeah. The night of the kid's six-month birthday.” “I was six months old that night?” “Exactly six months,” John echoes. “So basically, this demon is going after these kids for some reason. The same way it came for me? So Mom's death...Jessica. It's all because of me?” “We don't know that Sam,” Dean defends. “Oh really? Cause I'd say we're pretty damn sure Dean,” he bites back. “For the last time, what happened to them was not your fault,” Dean says, his voice lined with frustration. “Right. It's not my fault but it's my problem,” he shouts. “No, it's not your problem it's our problem!”

“Okay. That's enough,” John commands, standing abruptly. Immediately they stop, backing down as they take breaths.

Sam breaks the momentary silence. “So why's he doing it? What does he want?” It’s an almost impossible question especially when one will never be good enough, it doesn’t bring people back nor make you understand. The most it can give is a direction on how to stop it if that. “The answer can range from chaos junky to wanting an army,” I answer.

“I wish I had more answers, I do,” John adds. “I’ve always been one step behind it. Look, I’ve never gotten there in time to save…” He looks down with a frown on his face. “Alright, so how do we find it..before it hits again?” Dean asks. “There are signs. It took me a while to see the pattern but it's there in the days before these fires; signs crop up in an area. Cattle deaths, temperature fluctuations, electrical storms. And then I went back and checked...and…” “These things happened in Lawrence,” Dean finished.

John nods, “A week before your mother died. And in Palo Alto...before Jessica. And these signs, they're starting again.” “Where?” Sam asks “Salvation, Iowa.”

********

The roads seem endless as we head to Iowa; land stretching for miles. John's black truck leads the way through countless hours and misty roads until he suddenly pulls off onto the shoulder. Call it a learned habit or whatever else; either way we exit the Impala with haste, meeting a distressed John outside his vehicle. “God damn it!” he curses, kicking the dirt by his tires.

“What is it?” Dean asks.

“Son of a bitch!” he curses again instead of answering.

“What is it?!” he tries again.

“I just got a call from Caleb,” he explains.

“Is he okay?” Dean asks, worry on his face.

“He’s fine. Jim Murphy’s dead.”

“Who’s Jim?” I ask. I know the Winchesters have many connections, yet it still surprises me how many they do have, especially when my father had little to none. I think he only had John by the time he married Mom, and that was really only an ‘I owe you.’ Turns out no one wants to keep in touch or be friends with the guy who married a Witch. “He’s a Pastor that would look after us sometimes,” Dean explains. It comes back to me a little: Sam mentioned calling Pastor Jim for information on their father months ago, and Dean telling me memories long ago in the faint autumn sun.

“How?” Sam asks.

“His throat was slashed. He bled out,” John answers. “Caleb said they found traces of sulfur at Jim's place.”

“A demon,” Dean concludes. His father nods. “The Demon?”

“I don't know. ‘Could be he just got careless, he slipped up. Maybe the demon knows we're getting close.”

“That doesn’t sound like something he would do though,” I chime in. “Why suddenly change the pattern even if he does think you’re getting close?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do we do?” Dean asks. “Now we act like every second counts. There are two hospitals and a health center in this county. We split up, cover more ground. I want records. I want a list of every infant that's going to be six months old in the next week,” John orders. “Dad that could be dozens of kids. How do we know which one's the right one?” Sam points out. “We check ‘em all that's how. ‘You got any better ideas?” “No sir.” John nods, satisfied with that response. He turns to his truck and stops, his head hanging low. The last few days might be the most I’ve seen him upset. “Dad?” Dean says softly. “Yeah. It's Jim. You know, I can't....” His face hardens, ridding his voice and face of sadness. “This ends now. I'm ending it. I don't care what it takes.”

I tug on the bottom of my blouse, adjusting how it sits on my chest before walking through the door Dean holds open. He’d been quiet the entire way to the hospital, even when we dropped off Sam at the medical center, I worry it might be about Pastor Jim’s death or the weight of the whole yellow-eyed situation but I’m not sure.

We walk over to the receptionist's desk, a pretty brunette sitting behind it. He doesn’t make a face or remark about her looks which is even more concerning. “Hi. Is there anything I can do for you?” she asks, shining a perfect smile.

“Hello,” I smile back, feeling a burning gaze on me. “I’m Agent Spears and this is my partner, Agent Taylor,” I pull out my ID from my pocket, showing proof of my lie. I look at Dean, his eyes shooting up to my face from wherever they were, his eyebrows raised and eyes a little wide. My eyebrows furrow and my nose scrunches a little with my confusion. He looks at my ID and then at the woman in front of us. “Right,” he mumbles, fumbling with the pocket of his suit jacket for his ID. He pulls it out, flipping it open quickly with a boyish smile. “We…” I look back at the woman. “We were hoping to look at some files…”

********

Our file reading had been cut short when we received a worrying call from Sam informing us of his vision. It hadn’t taken us long to get to the motel room to regroup and talk; Sam sitting with his head in his hands at the table while his father sat on the end of one of the queen beds. Dean sits on the edge of the other bed, the sleeves of his white button-down rolled up to his elbows; we didn’t have time to change into normal clothes when we essentially rushed over here. And I stand a little awkwardly by Dean, arms crossed against my chest after hearing everything Sam has to say.

“A vision,” John repeats flatly.

“Yes. I saw the demon burning a woman on the ceiling,” Sam explains through gritted teeth, messaging his temples.

“And you think this is going to happen to this woman you met because…”

“Because these things happen exactly the way I see them,” Sam finishes.

“It’s almost like he already explained that,” I remark, earning a sharp glare from John. But, it’s not my fault he’s not getting with the program.

“It started out as nightmares. Then it started happening while he was awake,” Dean elaborates, rising from the bed and crossing to the counter behind his brother to get more coffee. Sam winces. “Yeah. It's like the closer I get to anything to do with the demon the stronger the visions get.”

“Alright. When were you going to tell me about this?” John asks, his words directed at his eldest son. Both boys pause, looking at their father.

“We didn’t know what it meant,” Dean answers. “Alright, something like this starts happening to your brother, you pick up the phone and you call me,” John replies firmly.

The coffee pot and mug slam back onto the counter, discarded as Dean strides towards his father. “Call you? Are you kidding me? Dad, I called you from Lawrence alright? Sam called you when I was dying. I mean, getting you on the phone? I got a better chance of winning the lottery.” “You're right. Although I'm not too crazy about this new tone of yours, you're right. I'm sorry.”

“I’m sure you can watch your own tone Johnny Boy,” I interject, an unamused smile on my face. I’ll give it to him, I never thought I’d hear him say he was wrong ever let alone multiple times in the last couple of days. But, I’m also not fond of his accusatory tone as if this was the boy's fault. “Look guys, visions or no visions, ‘fact is, we know the demon is coming tonight,” Sam cuts in. “And this family's gonna go through the same hell we went through.” “No, they're not. No one is, ever again,” John reaffirms. Then, the ringing of a phone cuts through the atmosphere. “Hello?” Sam answers.

“Who is this?”

…

“Meg,” he states. The name is like a knife being plunged into my gut. It is a reminder of the cruelty I put her through, how it was my fault she died as she did. The boys tried to convince me that it wasn’t my fault but they were wrong. Her death may not have been on purpose but it was certainly my fault. And now she’s back. That night is a reminder of what I am and all that I’m capable of. No matter how much I try to hold back and no matter how good I am I can never get rid of what is in my blood.

“Last time I saw you you fell out of a window,” Sam answers. Again there is no blame put on anyone, it’s framed as an accident or something that happened and yet it does not feel that way to me. “...Just your feelings? That was a seven-story drop.” She should be dead and yet she isn’t. Maybe this should feel like a second chance or rid me of some guilt, but it doesn’t. Sam looks over to his Dad before he answers whatever question he was asked. “My Dad. I don't know where my Dad is.”

He hesitates and then the phone is put into his father's hands. “This is John…I'm here” There’s a long pause before he speaks again. “Caleb? You listen to me. He's got nothing to do with anything. You let him go.”

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out she’s torturing this man.

“…I don't know what you're talking about,” He answers steadily. “…Caleb. Caleb!... I'm gonna kill you, you know that?” The boys step closer to him. “Okay…I said okay, I'll bring you the colt.”

My eyes widen. “It's gonna take me about a day's drive to get there…That's impossible. I can't get there in time and I can't just carry a gun on the plane.” There’s a silence and a grim look on his face before John hands back Sam’s phone. He runs a hand down his face as he paces, explaining that Meg demanded he bring the Colt to a warehouse in Lincoln alone otherwise everyone they’ve ever known, every hunter friend, every loved one will die. “So you think Meg is a demon?” Sam questions. “Either that, or she's possessed by one. It doesn't really matter,” John replies.

“‘How else could she have…um… survived,” I mumble. “What do we do?” Dean asks. “I’m going to Lincoln,” John declares.

“What?” Dean exclaims. “It doesn't look like we have a choice. If I don't go, a lot of people die, our friends die.” “Dad, the demon is coming tonight. For Monica and her family. That gun is all we got, you can't just hand it over,” Sam points out. “Who said anything about handing it over? Look, besides us and a coupla of vampires no ones really seen the gun, no one knows what it looks like.” “So what, you're just going to pick up a ringer at a pawn shop?” Dean asks. “Antique store,” John clarifies. “Cause that’s so different,” I remark. I mean, it is but in this instance, there might as well not be a difference.

“You're going to hand Meg a fake gun and hope she doesn't notice?” Dean interjects. “Look, as long as it's close, she shouldn't be able to tell the difference,” he reasons. “Yeah but for how long? What happens when she figures it out?” Dean points out, his voice firm.

“I just...I just need to buy a few hours, that's all.”

“I know you’re supposed to go alone but I can go with you and offer assistance from afar,” I offer.

“No,” he says firmly. “You need to be with the boys.” I never thought I’d hear him say those words but with the way he directs them at me so sharply I know what he means. I can offer a level of protection against the yellow-eyed demon that wouldn’t be there otherwise.

“You want us to stay here, and kill this demon by ourselves?” Sam asks, figuring out what his father meant as well. “No Sam. I want to stop losing people we love. I want you to go to school, I want Dean to have a home. I want...I want Mary alive. It's just...I just want this to be over.”

********

I can’t stop my leg from bouncing as we sit in the Impala, watching the house where the demon will strike next. The boys are better at hiding their nervousness, which may only be good in this instance, but I’m unsure.

John was long gone by now. His truck was packed with a fake gun and an arsenal of weapons. The real gun sitting between Sam and Dean in the front seat with only four bullets. Promises of “don’t die” and “finish this fight” were shared before he left.

Maybe I shouldn’t be nervous or maybe that’s a stupid remark. There’s a whole powerful and methodical demon to take down and a handful of people to protect in the process. I can’t mess up and I certainly can’t falter. I won’t. This is also why, for once, I chose simple clothing, opting for an all-black outfit that would be easy to move in. This had to go right.

And no offense to the boys but I’ve been tuning out most of their conversations. I don’t need “what ifs” I just need focus, my ears tuned to the radio playing music quietly and my eyes trained on the house, waiting for the telltale signs.

“You doin’ okay back there, sweetheart? You’re awfully quiet.”

My eyes immediately follow the voice; so much for tuning them out. “I’m always quiet,” I defend.

He smirks, somehow able to even at a time like this, “That’s not true.”

“Hey,” I frown.

“Didn’t say it was a bad thing,” he adds. “‘You nervous?” It’s a question, yet the way he looks at me through the rearview mirror makes me feel like he already knows the answer and is just asking out of courtesy.

“‘Course I am,” I answer. “And I know you guys are too…Which is fine! Nervous is good…probably.”

“Well, don’t worry that pretty head of yours, we’ll be just fine. I’ll protect you,” he declares, winking. He’s all smug in the way he says it and the way he smiles. Yet, I’m sure he’s just trying to get me to smile. And it works. I smile, scuffing and shaking my head even though I know for a fact that he wasn’t joking about protecting me. “There she is,” he drawls, eyes dipping down. My nervousness does ease, which should be stupid when all he did was talk to me. Maybe that’s pathetic and maybe I don’t care if it is.

“Dean...ah...I wanna thank you,” Sam says, joining in on whatever this is. “For what?” He responds, eyes breaking from the rearview mirror to look at his brother. “For everything. You've always had my back you know? Even when I couldn't count on anyone I could always count on you. And uh...I don't know I just wanted to let you know, just in case.” “Whoa whoa whoa, are you kidding me?” “What?” “Don't say just in case something happens to you. I don't wanna hear that fucking speech man. Nobody's dying tonight. Not us, not that family, nobody. Except for that demon. That evil son of a bitch ain't getting any older than tonight, you understand me?” Any softness Dean had moments ago seemed gone now. The light not-joking-joke was serious and ever so evident. This is a serious situation and I almost feel guilty for feeling a moment of ease, especially when the real fear of death lingers over all of us. Things can go wrong here really quickly; the Demon might not die tonight. The only thing I can promise and ensure, above all else, is that my boys aren’t dying.

********

“Dad’s not answering,” Dean announces, his phone held to his ear.

“Maybe Meg was late,” Sam suggests. “Maybe cell reception’s bad.”

Of course, he may be right, there's always the possibility; yet it feels like nothing more than an attempt to be positive, to see things optimistically.

“Yeah, well—”

“Wait. Listen,” Sam cuts Dean off. He rolls the dial on the radio, the breaking static getting louder.

“The lights are flickering,” I add, eyes trained on the house. My heart hammers in my chest at the knowledge of what lurks ahead.

“It’s coming,” Sam concludes.

Nothing more needs to be said and no more evidence needs to be presented for us to haul it out of the car. I beeline it to the front door, my hand on the handle and the lock undone before my body is fully near it. The boys take the lead, taking careful steps down the hallway. Then, a man lunges forward swinging a bat into a lamp. It shatters to the floor with a resounding clash.

“Get out of my house!” He yells, positioning himself to swing again. He has poor aim, a goatee, and a green sweater over a button-down, which doesn’t make for the most intimidating combination.

Dean surges forward, grappling with the man and the bat while Sam pleads for him to calm down. He fights against Dean who easily takes control, swinging him against the wall with a thud, the bat pressed across his throat. “Be quiet and listen to me,” Dean orders sharply. “Be quiet and listen. We are trying to help you.”

God, that was kind of hot—Wait. Priorities, I remind myself. “Come on, Sam,” I nod, moving to the stairs. Dean can take care of himself and we had other things to worry about.

“Charlie? Is everything okay?” A woman's voice cuts in just as I put one foot on the bottom step.

“Monica get the baby!” Charlie yells frantically.

“Don’t go in the nursery!” The Winchesters yell at the same time.

I rush up the stairs, taking two at a time, throwing back another, “Sam!” In an attempt to urge him along. I hear a faint threat from Charlie and some light commotion as I move down the long corridor, seeing a flash of white rush into a room at the far end. I push my legs forward, breaking into a run. I skid into the bedroom, catching only the syllables of a sentence before I throw myself in front of the dark-haired woman clad in a white nightgown. Immediately, I launch a burst of energy toward the dark figure sending it back into the wall. I don’t have the gun, all I can do is keep it busy.

“Get out of here!” I yell, looking back only briefly. But, suddenly I’m flung sideways, my shoulder hitting the wall hard before I fall to the floor, picture frames rattling above me. “Go!” I order, pain erupting in my shoulder and down my arm as I pick myself up.

“But my–”

Yellow eyes shine as it raises its hand.

“I’ll get your baby, just go!”

I intercept it again, throwing another blast that doesn’t seem to do anything more than halt and irritate it. Monica leaves the room. The baby erupts into tears, the commotion certainly startling it. The Demon tries to move me again with a flick of a wrist but I brace myself, using my powers to hold me in place as I lift my own hands and attempt to move it away from the crib. But, it barely shifts. And yet it feels like I’m fighting against gravity, a heavy invisible force trying to force me back as if weights were tied to my limbs. Even so, I push more of my powers forward, harsher and faster yet it still doesn’t budge even if it feels like a house was being thrown on top of me.

Then, Sam bursts through the doorway, freezing as he takes in the Demon. It seems to react to him, turning to him slightly. The Colt is raised and the shot rings in the air. The baby’s wailing becomes just as piercing as the gun. The Demon disappears into smoke, the bullet landing in the wall behind it, marking the wall.

I nearly collapse as the invisible weight is lifted off of me, my bones feel like jello–almost as if they too were giving up on me. I slump forward slightly, pulling myself toward the crib.

“Where the hell did it go!” Sam yells.

I ignore him, focusing on getting the kid out first. Before my hands even touch the wooden sides I can feel what is to come, the fire licking at my hands before there's one at all. I don’t know whether it's some sort of intuition or what Missouri had shown me all those months ago, either way, I quickly and carefully scoop up the crying baby, the crib exploding into flames as I step back and shield the child from it. The windows explode, flames crawling outwards—feeding on the oxygen.

The moment I step into the hallway strong arms encircle me. He’s behind me, urging me forward with a hand on my middle back as we race out of the house, smoke filling the place rapidly. Sam and Monica aren’t that far in front of us, I guess she only left the room before and not the house itself.

My lungs greedily take in clean air as we make it outside. The baby is taken from my arms and into the rightful one of her mothers. Charlie puts his arm around his wife’s, eyes scanning both his girls. “Thank you,” Monica says with tear-filled eyes.

I’m glad everyone was safe and yet I feel almost defeated, like there was more that could’ve been done. And I’m sure that same thought is going through the boy's heads too. All that we can do is watch as the house is consumed in flames, harsh oranges and reds licking at what is meant to be a place of safety. But, there in the burning nursery, through shattered windows, is a mocking dark silhouette that can only be one being.

“It’s still in there!” Sam yells, starting for the front door.

Dean grabs him quickly, holding him back, “Sam. Sam, no.”

“Dean let me go, it’s still in there,” he argues, struggling against his hold.

“No. It’s burning to the ground, it’s suicide.”

“I don’t care,” Sam yells.

“I do!’

And just like that, something changes. I can’t explain what it is exactly, but it’s heavy and it’s real. Once more, all we can do is watch as the flames rise again, the Demon disappearing.

********

Dean paces the motel room, his phone to his ear as it rings for the umpteenth time. “Come on Dad, answer your phone damn it,” he grumbles. Given the last year his disappearance doesn’t seem out of character but because he was on this whole mission his lack of contact is worrisome. He hangs up with a huff, “Somethings wrong.”

“Okay,” I sigh from my chair, “We’ll find him…again.” Whatever is wrong we can fix, or at the very least handle it better than the yellow-eyed demon (hopefully.)

Dean nods silently, stress and frustration clear in his features. Then, his attention goes to Sam who instead of answering stares at the wall with his classic bitchface. Dean tilts his head down, trying to get his brother's attention. “‘You hear me? Somethings wrong.”

“If you had just let me go in there, I coulda ended all this.”

“Sam, the only thing you would have ended was your life,” Dean counters.

“You don’t know that,” Sam answers firmly.

“The building was going down you wouldn’t be able to see let alone breathe long enough to even get to it or do anything,” I add.

He shakes his head, “‘Doesn’t matter.”

Dean walks towards where Sam sits on the end of one of the beds. “So what, you’re just willing to sacrifice yourself, is that it?”

He stands up abruptly, towering over his brother. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re damn right I am.”

“Well, that’s not going to happen, not as long as I’m around.”

“What the hell are you talking about Dean? We’ve been searching for this demon our whole lives. It’s the only thing we’ve ever cared about.”

“Sam, I wanna waste it. I do. Okay? But it’s not worth dying over.”

“What?”

“I mean it. If hunting this demon means getting yourself killed then I hope we never find the damn thing,” he doubles down. “That thing killed Jess. That thing killed Mom,” Sam argues. “You said it yourself once, that no matter what we do, they're gone, and they're never coming back.”

Sam snaps. He grabs Dean by the collar of his shirt and shoves him hard against the wall. I stand quickly, ready to intervene but Dean throws me a quick look that tells me to not.

“Don't you say that, not you!” Sam yells, his voice breaking a little. “Not after all this don’t you say that.” Despite the anger thrown at him Dean answers with soft, quiet words, “Sam look. The three of us...that's all we have...and it's all I have. Sometimes I feel like I'm barely holding it together man...and without you…or Y/N, or Dad…”

“Dad,” Sam slumps, letting go and turning away. He runs a hand down his face as he walks across the room. “He should have called by now. Try him again.” Dean presses a couple of buttons, then raises his phone to his ear again. It’s quiet for two beats before his face contorts in anger. “Where is he?” He spits.

......TO BE CONTINUED......

(Next Chapter)

Tag List: @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld @okayiamkassandra @fablesrose @ada--44 @bonkydarnes @star-yawnznn @crazyunsexycool @onlyangel-444 @seninjakitey @mystic-mara @mxltifxndom @stilesxreid @chaotic-luvrs @tiggytaylor @deanwasscaredbyacat @imaginexred @daisychaingirl @yasmin12312 @squishytap @i-am-fckn-sleep-deprived @wecangetlostinthepurplerain

#supernatural #fanfiction #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester #the hunter and the witch #dean winchester x witch reader #sam winchester #slow burn #john winchester #deanxreader #dean winchester x f!reader #dean winchester x fem!reader #dean winchester x reader series #supernatural fic #supernatural season one

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camillomea · 2 days ago

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Trouma bond

Jason had stayed in his room after Bruce had calmed him down. He hadn't moved. He was sitting in the corner. He had calmed down but he needed some alone time. He knew that everyone was on duty, after all, the Joker was outside. Jason was still standing here when he should have gone to kill him. He was drowning in his own thoughts when the door opened. At first, he thought it was Alfr2d, but the person standing there was none other than Tim. Jason asked, "Has the clown been caught yet?" Tim mumbled, "No." He left the tray on the nightstand. Jason looked at him questioningly. Tim mumbled, "You're not the only one with clown trauma." He sat down on the floor next to him. He gave him one of the hot chocolates. He took a spare earbud from his pocket and put it on his ears. Jason was startled by the sudden voice, but as he expected, it wasn't the bats' line. Someone was humming a song quietly. Jason blinked. Tim leaned on Jason and started drinking his hot chocolate. “There’s a line that the YJ members and a few others around us set up after most of the team got lost. We can always hear each other when we can’t mute the line. It’s a bit like a trauma support line. The voices keep their thoughts away from their trauma. They can’t hear us right now, but they’re aware of the situation,” he said. Jason stayed quiet and wrapped the blanket around himself and him. He had one arm around Tim. The humming sound continued to come from the earpiece. After a while the humming stopped. The same person said. “Hey kids, do you have a reminder of that cookie recipe we told you about a few months ago? Or do you have the recipe?” Another voice said. “Bart, you can’t come in the kitchen.” Bart said. “Oh, come on Cassie, I’m not that bad anymore. I learned.” There was a beep then another voice said. “Are you sure you’re not going to burn the kitchen down?” Bart said. “I haven’t burned down a kitchen in a long time. Besides, I’m not in the kitchen at the shelter so I won’t burn down our kitchen.” Another voice was heard on the line. "So what, if it's not our kitchen, does that mean it doesn't matter if you burn it or not?" Bart asked. "Of course not Raven, but wouldn't it be better to burn another kitchen than ours?" A voice grumbled. But there was a smirk mixed in with the grumble. "He's right, kids," the voice said. A more mature voice said, "You can burn whatever you want as long as you burn mine, Bart." Bart said, "Oh, don't worry, Uncle Cisco. You're our cool uncle. If you get mad at us and decide not to let us do what you let us do, the others will kill me for it." A few laughter was heard on the line. Jason and Tim spent the next few hours listening to the line, two of them had their microphones turned off, but they could hear the others. The noise hadn't stopped all night. It seemed like everyone had decided to stay awake and keep the line alive. Bart had collected the cookies properly, but he had to remind them of the order of the cuts many times over. Jason had never heard this recipe before, but hearing it over and over again had burned it into his brain. Still, the noise was very irritating. He made him feel safe and good. It was like everyone had seriously given up on sleeping to support them. Even though Tin's eyes were closed, it was obvious that he was awake. The sun was just rising when he opened the door. Bruce was looking around worriedly and relieved with what he saw. "Hey Jay Timmy," he said. Tim opened his eyes. "Is it over?" he said silently. Bruce said, "Yeah son, it's over. He's in Arkham. Are you two okay?" Tim mumbled a silent agreement as he snuggled closer to his brother. Jason didn't mind, he ruffled his hair and said, "We're okay. I didn't know about the kid's trauma though." Bruce winced. "He doesn't like to talk about it," he said. Tim said, "I'm here. I can hear you." Jason laughed. "Yeah yeah, we know," he said. Bruce crouched down next to the two of them. "Can I join you?" Tim shrugged. Jason nodded.

note : inspired by Jason's joker trauma scene that I saw in the wayne family adventures, that's all for now but there will probably be a sequel

#batman #tim drake #batfamily #jason todd #dc batman #dick grayson #damian wayne #bruce wayne #batman comics #alfred pennyworth

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the-wanderer · 1 day ago

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Netflix has seriously harmed it's reputation with how often it is now cancelling shows. What used to be seen as the go-to service for saving cancelled shows, has now become the very thing it swore to destroy {Hello There Obi-Wan Kenobi reference). Netflix likes to repeat it's standard line that they have never cancelled a successful show, but they conveniently never tell us how they measure success, because this doesn't ring true with their shows like Lockwood & Co and Shadow & Bone, that got to both Number 1 and Number 2 respectively in Netflix's own published streaming charts, and that still wasn't enough to save those shows from cancellation. Also Netflix clearly has favourites in terms of marketing, for example I enjoyed the show Everything Now, but you've probably never heard of it, and I searched Facebook - Netflix did one post about it when they dropped the trailer 3 weeks before it's worldwide release, and that was it; but other shows like Bridgerton, you can't fail to know it's there because they post daily about it on their socials for weeks up to and including release and for weeks after too. You even have actors in a new show saying they have to search their show to find it so they can watch and it's not even advertised on Netflix's own home screen, let alone anywhere else, so no wonder these shows get cancelled as they are never given a fair shot to succeed.

It seems unless you go viral or break Netflix's own streaming records, like Stranger Things or Wednesday, then even getting the number one or number two spot is not good enough to save a program from cancellation. Netflix needs to remember that not all releases are an overwhelming overnight success - even some of the best and most popular shows took a while to find their audience, like Breaking Bad, Game of Thrones, The West Wing, The Sopranos, but then when they did find their audience they became what everyone was talking about, and people who had never seen the show, still knew about them from it's impact on the cultural audience. Somebody else said, and I truly believe it, that if Netflix had made Breaking Bad today, they would have cancelled it after two seasons, and then think what great storytelling we would have missed out on, all because the show wasn't a record hit in it's opening week.

And now Netflix finds itself in a self-fullfilling loop where they have now trained their audience to not try new shows and get attached as they'll likely be cancelled. Think about it, how many new shows can you think of on Netflix that got renewed last year. It only seems to be people will tune in for shows like Bridgerton, Emily in Paris, Outer Banks, as they have had time to grow with the characters, so now Netflix has got themselves in to a model where customers don't try a new show, like KAOS or Everything Now, and they'll wait and see if it's renewed, and when after only a month since it's release, it does indeed get cancelled, the consumer hasn't wasted time getting invested in a show & characters that get cut short, especially nowadays when there is so much to watch across traditional TV and now streaming services too, that just because the audience doesn't come running to watch as soon as it drops, doesn't mean it's not there or interested.

2025 see's the return of some of Netflix's biggest shows like Squid Game, Wednesday and Stranger Things, but 2 out of those 3 also end this year too and then what shows will be left that are associated with the Netflix brand - they had Stranger Things, House of Cards, Orange Is The New Black when Netflix first got going, it'll be hard to say by the end of this year what big shows Netflix will have left to draw customers in

Unless Netflix, and the wider industry, change their perception to not only see massive, viral numbers as success and that shows with strong-moderate success are allowed to grow and widen their audience, then there will eventually reach a tipping point where they will cancel one show too many that either customers leave their service, or creatives will decide that Netflix isn't a good partner to work with where you put years of work in writing, filming, producing, editing a project just for it to be cancelled a month after it's release, so if you have a story that needs more than one film or a one and done series to tell it in, then Netflix probably isn't your best bet any longer.

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scaryanneee · 2 months ago

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crying in the data mines rn

#more to come #but just a little preview #veilguard spoilers #dav spoilers #solavellan #there's so many good lines that got cut!!!#dragon age the veilguard

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starry-bi-sky · 9 months ago

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tales of the passerine - danny fenton being bruce wayne's first kid

okay okay. so this is like a continuation/elaboration of my oneshot/prompt i wrote about the idea that Danny was the first batkid. We have a lot of aus where he joins the family after the rest of the bats do, right? So hey! Lets shake things up a bit. Danny is the first to be adopted by Bruce Wayne.

Danny's parents and unfortunately Jazz die shortly after the events of TUE -- how so? I was gonna say an ecto-filter explosion, that would call back to the TUE explosion and trauma behind that. But lets do something new! Carbon-monoxide poisoning.

It's not too unexpected for something to break in the Fenton house, especially with the Fenton parents' questionable understanding of proper weapon handling and lab safety. The water heater broke from a stray shot by one of the weapons, and was promptly MacGyver'd incorrectly. Danny went to stay with Tucker for a guys' night, and came back to a dead silent house.

(Danny's neighbors got a very unfortunate shock when he ran to the next house over in hysterics.)

There was a lot of shuffling around with CPS, the police. People had to be called in to handle the equipment in the lab, and the GIW was rumoring to show up in aid to clearing the scene. When Danny heard of that, he immediately went and dismantled the ghost portal to the best of his abilities. He burned the physical blueprints of all his parents' inventions, their blueprints on the ghost portal, and their most dangerous weapons were destroyed beyond recognition. Anything to prevent the GIW from getting their hands on his parents' tech.

It opened up another investigation, but he was not under the list of suspects. He was placed in the care of Vlad Masters, where they then went back to the rebuilt castle mansion in Wisconsin. Danny, terrified of the future that has once passed and may do so again, shuts down in his grief. Inadvertently, he ends up somewhat repressing his ghost half. Something Vlad, who is grieving Madeline but relishing in Jack's demise and his custody of Daniel, is not very happy with.

Vlad's... gone into a bit of a mental health spiral. He's becoming increasingly possessive over Daniel, the final remnants of his friends and a liminal being like him. He doesn't like that Danny's repressing his ghost half -- both out of genuine concern as a ghost, but also because of his desire to control Danny and groom him into the perfect son. If you ever had a phase where you read Dark SBI found family fics, first off; me too bro, and second off; those are the vibes I'm thinking of.

Danny's mentally shut down from grief! And fear. He's dropped into a bad depressive state -- paralyzed with grief and the terror of the inevitable. Clockwork saved his parents because he believes in second chances, but what's the point of that when his family ended up dead anyways? Danny doesn't wanna believe that he's destined to become evil, and he's holding out onto that hope, but it's a thin line, and he feels utterly hopeless and trapped. He hasn't used his powers or ghost form since he trashed the lab, and Vlad has alarms set up to prevent him from trying to escape.

He's also unintentionally cut off Sam and Tucker -- both of whom are so scared and concerned for Danny too, and are trying their damndest to reach out to him. He keeps ignoring their texts. Danny basically haunts Vlad's manor. He goes out to eat if he has to, attends parties Vlad drags him to, and stays in his room all day if he can.

At parties, Vlad doesn't allow Danny to leave his side, or really talk to anyone -- not that Danny wants to. A product of Vlad's increasing possessiveness. Well, he almost doesn't let Danny leave his side. Danny has a habit of slipping off to hide somewhere for the parties whenever he can, and Vlad reluctantly allows it so long as he stays alone.

This becomes an advantage when eventually, Bruce Wayne returns to Gotham after missing for years, and holds a bright charity ball to celebrate the return. Vlad has been chomping at the bits to get his hands on Wayne Industries, and with the return of its owner there is no better opportunity to wipe out his rival. He goes, and he as normal, brings Daniel with him.

Vlad thinks Wayne will bleed his little heart out for Daniel's poor orphan sob story -- he's a fellow orphan himself, after all. He's not wrong; Wayne's little heart will bleed, just not in the way that benefits him.

Bruce sees Vlad and Danny approaching before they're even close enough to introduce themselves - and like with many of the children he will soon come to care for, it's like someone set a mirror into the past right in front of him.

Danny Fenton's suit is tailor-made for him, and despite the fact that it's his perfect size, the sag in his shoulders, the ducked down head, and the way he hunches into himself all pictures the image of a child in shoes too big for him. There's a far away, glazed over look in his eyes and grief marble-cut into the lines of his face. There's not enough makeup in the world that will hide the dark circles under his eyes.

("My nephew, Daniel Fenton." Vlad's hands are possessive on Danny's shoulders. Bruce immediately notices the way the boy tenses under his touch. "His parents passed recently, and as his godfather I was designated his guardian.") ("I'm so sorry, the loss must've been terrible.") ("Yes, carbon-monoxide poisoning caused it. Daniel was out with friends, when he came home... they had already passed.") (Bruce immediately dislikes that Vlad shared the details of their death unprompted -- he likes it even less when Danny flinches at the reminder and hunches into himself.)

Danny runs off at some point earlier into the charity. At this point, parties are still being held at Wayne Manor (because iirc google search mentioned that was a thing at first before it was changed), so he disappears and hides in one of the empty rooms nearby. It just so happens to be the same room Bruce Wayne hides in when he needs a break from all of the socialization.

Thus begins a long, long process of trust. Bruce can't reveal his hand as being smarter than he looks, but he can be compassionate. Kindness needs no measure of intelligence. He keeps Danny company for as long as he can before he runs the risk of being found.

Rinse and repeat. Vlad insistently wants Wayne Industries, and he'll go to as many Wayne parties as he can to get his hooks into the man. The problem is that Bruce Wayne is never alone, and getting him alone is impossible. Finding him too. It's like the man never stops moving. Always talking to someone, always circling somewhere. He orbits around the room as if he isn't the sun of the Gotham Elite's solar system.

Danny's had such repetitive behavior that Vlad never thinks to believe that Bruce Wayne is disappearing to go talk to him. That "Vlad's" son is even interacting with him at all. Danny never gives him a reason to think so, and neither does Bruce.

Danny doesn't actually acknowledge Bruce until a handful of parties in, where he hands Bruce a small slip of paper he smuggled in that says; "don't trust Vlad". Danny's face stays carefully blank, but he's so tense that his hands are trembling, and he's purposely looking away from him. Bruce plasters a smile onto his face, slips the paper into his pocket, and tells him "okay".

(he's been busy with his own goals with the mafia, but he sets aside time to investigate Vlad Masters. He was holding off. Until now.)

Danny does eventually start speaking to Bruce, he's starting to really like the guy. He's starting to see a little hope, even as Vlad is starting to get more and more agitated with him the more he refuses to use his powers.

He reaches out to Sam and Tucker again, and starts trying to reconnect with them. Vlad has spyware on his phone, and he limits the amount of times he can talk to them. A weird parental control lock of some sort that leaves a time limit on how long he can talk to them for. 30 minutes. Danny doesn't tell them anything about Mr. Wayne.

Danny, slowly, wants out of here, and he's slowly gathering the motivation to do it. Vlad is genuinely scaring him -- and Danny wonders just how truthful the past-future Vlad was when he told him that Danny wanted his ghost half separate. He starts trying to come up with an escape plan.

Vlad has anti-ghost wards everywhere around the mansion, and while they're always on, they boost to full power at sunset. The doors and windows are always locked, all main exits have alarms set on them. The only reason it's not super extensive is because Danny hasn't tried leaving at all yet, so Vlad hasn't had to tighten anything.

At night, Vlad locks the door to his room and puts up an anti-ghost ward around the room. The mansion is on the outside westward side of Madison, more entrenched in rural Wisconsin. The closest town is a four-way stop sign with one house on three corners, and an open bar on the fourth. Not much to go.

He refuses to go to Sam and Tucker; Vlad would look there first. It's too dangerous. Vlad would sound alarm bells and have a manhunt looking for him, Danny can't risk going just anywhere. Too much risk of being found, sold out, or caught. There's really nowhere for him to hide.

Until there is. Bruce is telling Danny about the history of Wayne Manor, and says, as casually as saying the weather; "The manor has dozens of empty rooms, I'm sure Alfred wouldn't mind filling another one if he could." And quietly, hesitantly, Bruce places a careful hand on Danny's shoulder, unrestrictive and gentle; "He wouldn't mind getting one ready for you if you need one."

And there it is. There's his out.

Danny, just as quietly, replies; "I'll keep that in mind."

The ball starts rolling.

Now I've been trying to summarize this au as much as possible for length convenience, but Vlad has been steadily growing more and more controlling. More emotionally manipulative. More agitated at Danny for not using his powers.

He wants Wayne Industries under his thumb but he's been steadily growing more and more concerned with Danny. He's started grabbing him, yanking him around, shaking him; trying to goad him into using his powers. He gets angry when Danny doesn't react, or tells him he doesn't want to use his powers. He hasn't outright attacked him, but he's getting there. This has been happening over the time it takes for Bruce to indirectly offer Danny sanctuary at his home.

It all comes to a head when Vlad stops going to parties at all -- something Danny has to pretend he isn't upset about -- because Vlad doesn't want him around other people anymore. Vlad rarely goes now without him, and only leaves to go to a Wayne function or to handle something at VladCo.

Danny can't wait for Vlad to leave long enough to escape. So he leaves during the night of a big storm. Vlad's locked him in his room, but Danny doesn't bother trying to go for it; he goes to the alarmed window instead. Danny's been repressing his ghost half so long that he can't access his powers immediately anymore -- he can feel it, he knows its there, but he can't quite reach it.

He breaks the lock by hand.

Immediately the alarm goes off through the entire castle, filling the room with red, and he scrambles for the rope the Wisconsin Ghost left for him a few months back. Danny's already out and climbing down the side of the castle before Vlad even reaches his door -- the only good thing about the entire room being ghost-proof is that Vlad can't get in that way.

The rope ends before it reaches the bottom, and he's still twenty feet in the air. It won't kill him if he lands it right. Danny takes his chances, and drops. He breaks his ankle, but he survives.

And he fucking books it to the back garden. He hears Vlad shrieking over the thunder and rain.

I'll save the full experience for a future oneshot, but Danny makes it out into the nearby woods and forcibly experiences what it's like to be in a horror game, trying to hide from the thing that's hunting you. There's only one thing going through his mind; "i'm going to die"

I have this mental image for this scene. Very stereotypical horror imo. Where Danny is hiding behind a tree, with a hand over his mouth, and Vlad is a few feet away from him, glowing ominously red through the trees, trying to search for him.

Danny doesn't get away from this unscathed, but he does get away alive. That's all he could ask for. He gets away by getting his ghost half awakened long enough to transform into Phantom and fly to Gotham.

But he gets to Wayne Manor, he gets to Bruce. Or, at least, Alfred answers the door from his insistent pounding. Danny's just in tears and Alfred gets him in the living room, wrapped in a towel, with ice on his swollen leg before he has to step out and alert Bruce.

Bruce already breaks multiple traffic laws on a nightly basis. And that's just with the sheer existence of the batmobile itself, not including the speeding and military artillery attached. He breaks double the amount trying to speed back to the cave and get out of the suit.

Right off the bat: Bruce will know, at least before Dick enters the picture, about danny's powers. He'll figure out something considering the fact that Danny traveled from Wisconsin to New York in a single night. That'll be a bit of complicated affair, but I've already got something in mind.

Actually it'll probably be very soon after Danny joins the family, because Bruce tries to offer to fight for custody for Danny - the state Danny was in at arrival is clear enough evidence for a trial. But Danny immediately shuts it down, says it's not going to work and then Vlad will know Danny's with him and he won't be safe. He tells him that Vlad cannot know Danny was with Bruce.

Danny's biggest regret was not telling his parents he was a halfa, and while he doesn't want to tell mister wayne (yet), he does tell him about Vlad being one. He needs to know why Danny can't be seen with Bruce. So he tells him, and Danny's current plan is to just hide out from Vlad until he turns 18. That way, he has no more legal jurisdiction over him. After that? He's not sure.

And to wrap this up, since this has already gotten very long and I can make more posts about this au later; I've thought about it, and I'm going to say that Danny does become a vigilante before Dick enters the scene. He goes by, as you probably guessed; Nightingale. "Gale" for short.

#dpxdc #dp x dc #danny fenton is not the ghost king #dp x dc crossover #dpxdc crossover #tales of the passerine au #i dont want to overemphasize how much vlad sucks but also i dont want to downplay it. but also i didn't wanna make this post too long #i didn't emphasize enough on vlad's possessiveness but i wanted to make this post as general enough as possible for the au.#for some more wiggle room in the future if i make more posts about this au.#the consequences for Danny repressing himself was not a concern i was focused on for the post but i am thinking about it and mulling it ove #i'll be blunt my main specific reason for why this occurs shortly after tue is bc it means dani doesn't exist yet and it means i dont have #to include her in the continuation of this au. i love that girl but she's a dead weight. i dont wanna come up with an elaborate reason as #to why she's not in the picture when i can just say 'she never created in the first place' instead. i don't have anything for her to do #I don't want to risk giving her a poor plot line just so that she exists in au.#sometimes i really hate just how long my posts get. i feel like it kills my engagement. but i also don't want to make posts that have #a part 1 and part 2 just because I think it got too long.#i feel kinda bad for having Danny take the spot of 'first partner' from Dick. But that was part of the reason i was inspired to make this a #i've already got the skeleton of a reasoning for danny becoming a vigilante being made in my head.#He can't go by Phantom since that risks drawing Vlad's attention -- a new vigilante showing up in Gotham. a place the visited frequently #who goes by the name Phantom? He'd be on that faster than chickens on meat. and nightingale has familial meaning behind it due to being #part of an ancestral name. it follows robin's theme of using it to honor his parents while still having its own unique enough lore to stand #on its own without feeling like a cheap copy. plus the bonus meta reason that it follows the bird theme. which personally is vital to me #my other alternative to Nightingale is Sparrow. mostly because it has good phonetic structure for a hero name. not too many syllables #a good balance of consonants and vowels. dont want a hero name with too many syllables or unbalanced consonants. or worse; both.#my reasonings is that hero names should be easy for a civ or teammate to yell while still being understood. max amount of syllables before #it threatens to become too wordy is 3. If it goes over 3 it should have a balanced consonant-vowel ratio. Wonder Woman is a good example #some things got cut here that were in the initial oneshot. like danny giving bruce his physical ghost core and showing up bloody.#the first son au

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heartorbit · 8 months ago

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WAOT WERE U THE ONE TSUKASA COSPLAYER AT MIKUEXPO GIVING OUT MIKU STICKERS TO THE PJSK FANS

THATS ME!!!!! i didn't mean to just give them to pjsk fans help but i severely underestimated how many i should've made and cut out .. so i just ended up giving them to cosplayers or people who said hi to me .... T_T

THERE'S ALSO THIS SUPER CUTE BRACELET SOMEBODY RAN UP TO ME AND GAVE ME AND I TREASURE IT SO I NEED TO ADD IT TO THE POST AND SHOW IT OFF .. WAH!!!! ITS SO CUTE LOOK!!!!!!

#again WAS NOT MY BIRTHDAY. MIKUEXPO TORONTO FELL ON TSUKASAS BIRTHDAY IN JAPAN TIME. SORRY TO EVERYONE WHO SAID HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME.#i love your icon cause i saw a garf miku cosplayer at mikuexpo toronto too IT WAS SO AWESOME #i saw snother tsukasa cosplayer in hid school outfit and they had cute star glasses i Need some.#in the future n for cons i think i'll just order stickers to hand out .. cutting them out by hand was so much .....#especially when i did the whole pjsk cast. 10 or so of each of them. my best friend helped and it still took like 2 hours #<- I DID THAT FOR ANIME NORTH I MEAN i think i forgot to post about it here. anyways #i dont plan on tabling at cons or snything cause i just like attending them so much. but #In the future i think i'll just pay to get Nice little prints or stickers made and shipped to me to hand out ...#Sorry they arent actual stickers they're just laminated with tape i did them the night before while crunching for the con the week after.#alliellama #ask #sorry to go on but mikuexpo really was such a good time #when we first got there i was in the merch line w my friends and skmeone came up and said can you do the tsukasa laugh right here right now #but everything we said echo and i was like T_T no im shy ...#and then 2 hours later i heard there was a saki cosplayer there and started running around the venue shouting SAKI. SAKIII. SAKI.#WE FOUND HER IT TOOK ME LIKE 20 MINS which is impressive because there were a lot of people. by god.#it was so fun. we had such a good time i could go on. everyone was so FREAKING NICE. AND GAVE SO MANY FREEBIES. AND COMPLIMENTS.#but i literally only had like ..30 mikus. to hand out. i felt SO BAD. CONSERVING THEM.

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ghostie-gengar · 1 year ago

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team money may have won, but love will always have my heart!

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felassan · 2 days ago

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Some more DA:TV and related snippets from Sylvia Feketekuty, Part 4. rest of post under a cut due to length and spoilers. [Post One, Post Two, Post Three]

User: "How and when did he and her(johanna) meet? What was the story between him and her back then?" // Sylvia Feketekuty: "1. So I always imagined he and Johanna met pretty early on, in the Watchers. In their teens, maybe? (Hezenkoss was a pretty exceptional mage and Emmrich was raised by the MW, so I imagine both were fast tracked into the order.) 2. I have rough ideas, but of course since not much is in the game, not much is set in stone. One thing I did hint at obliquely I think is okay to expand on: when Hezenkoss complains about the Venatori and Emmrich says disapprovingly they remind him of Tevinter's nobility, and she agrees. In my mind, I imagine Hezenkoss came from a family not that much more socially higher than Emmrich's. So they were kids who probably bonded early on not only out of intellectual curiosity, but because they both came from working class families compared to students from the elites." [source, two, three]

Nick Boraine: "Hey Sylvia. thanks for writing such a beautiful character. I loved saying your words. Hope to again one day." [source] // Sylvia: "Nick! Hello! I hope you've been soaking in people's reactions to your wonderful performance. People have fallen in love with it! "Hope to again one day." If the stars align, I'd love that! Also: hope you saw that Emmrich picked up the Silver for "best new character" on the Playstation blog fan vote!" [source, two, three] // Nick: "I have indeed - it’s been incredible. So grateful. Hoping VG companies will all come on board soon and we can end the strike. I’d love to interact more with all the fans." [source] // Sylvia: "I'm glad to hear you've been getting to see some of the fan reactions! "Hoping VG companies will all come on board soon and we can end the strike." Amen to that. Best of luck to everyone holding the line, you all deserve what you're asking for and more." [source]

User: "I had been looking forward to learning more about the Mourn Watch since reading “Down Among the Dead Men” (which made me cry!), and it has been such a delight to explore that part of DAV" // Sylvia: "I'm especially touched to hear that about DatDM. It was a privilege to be the first writer who got to really open up the tombs in that story." [source]

User: "I'd be interested to know if you know any fun facts or something about the nevarran language featured in the game" // Sylvia: "Ah, tomb-script. I named it but it was our concept artists who went developed it with the hexagon shape-language of the Mourn Watch, which I loved. Conceptually: I think it's used purely an occult or sacred language. Something for the graves, or books on magic, but not everyday things." [source] // User: "The artists did an amazing job—it’s such a unique and visually striking evolution of Elvhen script, and it really highlights the distinct Nevarran aesthetic beautifully. It would be great to hear more about it if there's anything you're able to share from the concept/lore side of its development!" // Sylvia: "I don't know if I have too much more, but I did love how our artists made it follow the hexagonal shape-language of the Mourn Watch in general. (It's everywhere in their architecture and props.)" [source]

User: "1. What was Emmrich like as a student? Did he struggle with a particular topic in classes? Hezenkoss says some about him dragging her to parties so I was wondering if he was wilder in his youth" // Sylvia: "1. I think he was a diligent but very social student, very outgoing and fairly popular. I can't think of what lessons he might be bad at, not because he was good at all of them, but because that would mean getting into extreme detail about the MWers academia. e.g. I think it's fair to say visualizing and compartmentalizing thoughts and memetic rituals is part of casting magic, but but what do those classes LOOK like? How many are broken into sub-specialties? Etc. That said, even though I'm not sure how much it'd come up, Emmrich is absolutely terrible with anything mechanical. (Touched on that in some banter between him and Bellara.) 3. I'd say someone achieving the rank of Watcher is probably discussed by senior staff members, and is tailored to each mage. More about competence, temperament, and control, rather than passing a set test. (Which could include a thesis or a practical demonstration, but not as an end-goal per se.)" [source, two, three, four, five]

User: "could Emmrich be considered a spirit healer, or rather whatever it is that makes a spirit healer have that extra affinity for spirits? (I always felt like the healer bit was encouraged out of fear) Is corpse whispering a subset of that or a different thing entirely?" // Sylvia: "I definitely feel Nevarran necromancy is in the same realm in general, yet that Emmrich's corpse whispering isn't drawing on spirits to function, it's his own personal will. If that makes sense." [source] // User: "I think I understand! Like he can comprehend the spirits a little more clearly than most so they're inclined to want to interact with him but the corpse whispering itself is his own request/demand, the spirit/corpse/whatever a soul is is responding rather than assisting with the magic itself?" // Sylvia: "Yes! I think that's a good description of it." [source]

User: "I have to ask, did you write the Josephine letter to the inquisitor codex?" // Sylvia: "that was indeed me! I liked revisiting those two, even a little bit, in that letter." [source]

User: "since he's interested in botany, do you think he'd enjoy opening up a flower shop with a romanced Rook?" // Sylvia: "I don't think he's a man interested in the headaches of running a business, but if Rook REALLY wanted to go for it, Emmrich would probably help grow the plants." [source]

User: "my question is did any of nick’s performance inform how you wrote emmrich, because some of the scenes of his i had to stop the game and just take in the perfect unity of actor and writer voice to conceive such a realized character. and were you always interested in claiming emm to write?" // Sylvia: "1. Yes, absolutely. Nick got who Emmrich was, right away, and that informed future writing once I knew what Emmrich actually sounded like, how Nick embodied those emotions. 2. I pitched Emmrich, so: yes, absolutely! I'd always thought the Grand Necropolis and its inhabitants sounded like a very cool corner of Thedas, and I'm partial to necromancers in general, so "necromancer" was the first thing I thought of when it came time to pitch new followers." [source, two]

User: "do you think Emmrich would ever end up referring to Manfred directly as his son?" // Sylvia: "So I had Emmrich call Manfred his ward, not his son, because I thought that was one step too far for him right away. But I don't think anything is impossible in the future." [source, two]

Sylvia: "It was my pleasure to to work with the team to finally show off the crypts of the Necropolis." [source]

User: "Can you please tell us what type of tea Emmrich drinks for breakfast? He strikes me as an Earl Grey person but then again English Breakfast also makes sense somehow" // Sylvia: "I'm actually not a big tea person, so I almost feel I should let this be whatever your head canon is. (That said I do think Earl Grey has the better scent. But do Emmrich's refined tastes match my own? I dump a lot of sugar and cream into mine after all lol.)" [source]

User: "Emmrich as Vincent Price: all in my head or intentional? And if the latter, who do I have to thank?" // Sylvia: "Love Mr. Price, a legend, but it was actually Peter Cushing who was one of my first touchstones before we had any art for Emmrich in." [source]

User: "1. When Em&Rook had their fight - what were his intentions? Did he try to break up with Rook? 2. Just hypothetically, if my Rook bends her knee and asks him to be hers forever, what would his reaction be? 3. Johannas hand, it's planning mischief, is it not?" // Sylvia: "2. Emmrich would be over the moon. He would absolutely love to get married. 3. "Johannas hand, it's planning mischief, is it not?" Who could possibly say? (yes)" [source, two]

User: "Could you tell us how Mourn Watchers life is arranged? Do they live in Nevarra or right in Necropolis? Are their rooms similar to that coffin room?" // Sylvia: "The Watchers live in the upper, safer levels of the Necropolis. I imagine this is where they sleep, eat, teach/train, and also where they prepare bodies for interment. "Are their rooms similar to that coffin room?" I don't want to say either way, just because we never actually go there, and I prefer to keep things open until something is actually in the game or in a story or comic or etc." [source, two]

User: "He has also been an extremely positive driving force and has caused me to pick back up my plan to go back to university and become a lecturer. It's a dream I shelved because of little self esteem but I know he would be sad if I didn't at least try, sad Emmrich is a powerful motivator!" // Sylvia: "He would indeed be sad, especially if this is a passion of yours, but glad to hear you're picking it up again. Sincerely, best of luck." [source]

User: "Can you talk about your writing process? I'd love to hear a bit about what influenced/shaped not only Emmrich but the Mourn Watch and Necropolis. I actually find comfort in death and I just adore what you crafted for the game. I'd love to join the Watchers myself." // Sylvia: ""Also, are you able to talk about what you envisioned every day life for Watcher's to be like? Or maybe some cultural tidbits you'd imagined while writing? I like to think they'd have some incredible festivals and create really interesting folk art!" Oh that is fun. I'll be honest though I'll be a little reticent, just because I tend not to talk about too much until it's in a game. I do think a lot of their everyday life is what Emmrich describes to Rook: Preparing bodies, helping grieving people visit their loved ones, maintaining the graves, and the undead that help maintain the graves. And of course hunting down malign manifestations. The MW and their carefully-courted spirit allies are good at preventing demonic incursion. But as we've seen, it's not impossible. And there's a desire to figure out the weirder stuff that not even the Watchers really fully know. (X-files theme). "I like to think they'd have some incredible festivals and create really interesting folk art" Me too! They involve the dead in their lives so much, I think that includes going down to the graveyard to celebrate milestones, versus visiting on a calendar date. One of my favorite things to write was the folk tale about how spirits were first drawn to Nevarra in particular. I really wanted to make it feel like one of those founding myths filtered through storytelling embellishment in the winter nights. [link] "I'd love to join the Watchers myself." The Necropolis is always looking for more company" [source, two, three, four, five, six]

User: "I just wanted to add that Hezenkoss is absolutely my favourite noncompanion character!" // Sylvia: "Thank you so much for this, because Hezenkoss was a great joy to write. I risked going all out with her, and I don't know if that lands for everyone, but I wanted to have a proper mad scientist who was also Emmrich's best friend because personal seemed better for him." [source]

User: "I heard a rumor that you wrote a lot of the codex. Did you write these? If not, do you know who did? I found them hilarious. [link]" // Sylvia: "Oh, that's not true at ALL. The writers all wrote about an equal amount of codex entries. (One of our editors and I did some work on the proposed structure and organization, but I'm in no way the main writer of the content.) The letter is very funny though. If it's LoF I'd assume there's a good chance this might be by Trick Weekes" [source, two] // Trick Weekes: "Honestly, while I gave that one a quick writing pass, it was largely Malcolm doing the first pass and busting out that Aethelred the Unready reference. (Which I loved and kept.)" [source]

User: "congrats on Emmrich winning second place for the best new character award" // Sylvia: "Thanks very much! I was thrilled to see him there, especially because it's a fan vote." [source]

User: "i would absolutely love to know a bit more about his relationship / time with Dorian as his student in the necropolis ! (Is it possible Dorian got inspired by him for his mustache ?" // Sylvia: "1. I'm afraid my response is pretty dull, because there's not much in game (and I'm not Dorian's writer) so I'm reluctant to add anything off the cuff. Sorry! 2. Aw that'd be cute. I think that's just artistic coincidence though, so it also has to remain in the murky mists of uncertainty. (But because it lives in that space, it's also not impossible. I'd say head canon it how you like!)" [source, two]

User: "i was also wondering if you worked on any other side characters beside Hezenkoss ?" // Sylvia: "I did! The Mourn Watchers were me. And through a complicated chain of events, I wrote one single merchant in Treviso - the gallery owner, Mistress Trella." [source]

User: "I have a very important question and I’m sorry if it’s been asked elsewhere: what’s his favorite kind of tea?" [re: Emmrich] // Sylvia: "I talked about it a little in this thread [compiled above], where I confess I'm not much of a tea person myself. So I'm happy to let tea-fans imagine anything they like." [source]

Sylvia: "So much of the romance rests on our animators and audio team and Nick Borraine stepping up to deliver everything perfectly" [source]

User: "Less of a question and more just appreciation. I love him so much, the casual plant lore, just everything." // Sylvia: "Aw thank you! I'm especially glad you enjoyed the plant lore, it really gave me an opportunity to have Emmrich enthuse about the Memorial Gardens, one of my favorite spaces in the game." [source]

User: "Also, if you don’t mind aside from liking pineapple and hazelnut torte. Does Emmrich have any other favored foods? Or favored flavours like spicy/salty/ect?" // Sylvia: "I actually went over that here a little, which isn't much detail. He DOES bring back dates for the group at one point. For whatever reason, I never pictured him with a huge sweet tooth, but the occasional pineapple or date is a nice treat." [source]

Sylvia, re: Emmrich: ""And I’m immensely jealous of how stylish he is" Same. He absolutely has a tailor or two who knows their stuff." [source]

Sylvia: ""did Emmerich studied only in Grand Necropolis or he was in Circle of Magi? Or mages in Grand Necropolis doesn't must to learn in Circles?" I talk about that a bit here: I think he trained in the Necropolis, but taught both there and Cumberland's Circle. Admittedly, I never defined the Mourn Watch's Circle status in game. It could be a sanctioned fraternity that takes in promising mages and trains them for the Necropolis, but isn't technically a Circle itself, even if it oversees harrowings. (There's a bit of banter from a Necropolis NPC on that.) This would explain why there's non-mages around with full MW membership, like how your Rook can be a MW warrior or rogue. So I'm inclined to think this is the case. (But until it's ever in a DA game or piece of media, I wouldn't consider that 100% canon. It's just my own thoughts.) "I'm not sure if I it was in game, but how Strife take it if Emmrich became a lich? Is he alright with that and they continue relationships or he just drop it?" We didn't tackle that in that game, I'm afraid, so there's no actual answer there. Sorry! Apologies if that non-answer is frustrating. But that's the kind of topic I wouldn't want to answer unless a future game had a reason to go into it. "How long Vorgoth have been around in Grand Necropolis? There's theories about their persona and I know that you can't give straight answer but could they be a lich?" I'm afraid Vorgoth must remain mysterious, but nothing is impossible with them... "me and my friend have headcanon that there should be something like hospice in Grand Necropolis. You know some place where palliative care is given to those who needs it. Could it be true or it's not in Grand Necropolis nature?" I hadn't planned it, but that's a fun head canon if you like it!" [source, two, three, four, five, six, seven]

User: "I have a question and that’s if you listened to anything in particular when writing Emmrich? Or any of your characters" // Sylvia: "I did! I have my playlist on my old computer and if I dig it out, I will post it here. It's mostly ambient stuff, I prefer music without words when writing. A lot of stuff from Cryochamber, but I listen to it a lot in general. [link]" [source, two]

User: "1. Were Johanna’s morals *always* questionable, or did they steadily decline? It sounded like she’d been given a lot of passes by the Mourn Watch, brilliant mind or no! 2. Anything you can tell us re: the War of the Banners? Like, how it began, or which spirits/noble lines were involved?" // Sylvia: "1. I think Hezenkoss always had what Emmrich might call a "cavalier attitude" towards rules and limits, but that it got worse over the years. Being exiled probably did not help, but she probably crossed a line at that point already. 2. The War of the Banners part of the backstory actually came from another writer, and I loved it. But I don't think I want to colour in the lines because there's so much room for imagination. (And since I'm not at BW anymore, it would be even more my own head canon than most other things.)" [source, two]

User: "It's so interesting when he is a lich, it's rare that we see conflict in a game romance like that. Also, his "coming out" scene to the whole group was unexpectedly funny and had me rolling xD" // Sylvia: "The "everyone: I'm a lich" scene was one where I was really trying to balance the seriousness of the previous scene with something a bit more lighthearted but still heartfelt. So I'm very glad you dug it!" [source]

User: "I wonder how Emmrich studied the Fade? cmiim he explored the Fade right? Was it through dream? I'm so intrigued by that." // Sylvia: "Your question is a good one. He has definitely explored it via dreaming/trances, but I think a Watcher would first train for that, learn how to set up wards, and to start with, do it under supervision. Given Emmrich's affinity for spirits, I'm sure he cultivated trustworthy spirit friends in the Fade who could guide and aid him as well. (The way we see him reach out during House of the Dead to spirits from a previous quest)" [source, two]

User: "Is Emmrich Andrastian?" // Sylvia: "I have some thoughts on this one. Nominally, yes he us. But I think a lifetime of studying other death practices and religions has shown Emmrich so many points of commonality in the search for transcendence and the divine, that he believes all religions may explore something of a universal truth. So the Thedas equivalent of Universal Unitarianism, basically. And maybe he corresponds/debates with some like-minded scholars out there. Though quietly. I think he'd err on the side of "Let's not trouble the Chantry with this." for safety's sake. (I didn't want to make him an agnostic free-thinker, that seems too conveniently lined up with modern conventions. But I think seeking truth through argument and philosophical exploration fits him.)" [source, two, three]

Sylvia, in response to a user saying this phrase: "BTW I got a kick out of "nevarran cryptid". Who knows what haunts the lower halls?" [source]

User: "Can a MW Rook have an opportunity to achive Lichdom in the future?Or maybe only a mage Watcher could?" // Sylvia: "So Emmrich managed it, and so did Hezenkoss after she pieced it together from what he told her. So we DO know it's not impossible for any mage to try it. Whether a non-mage could is a very good question. The abilities of the liches are very ill-defined at the moment, so possibly Emmrich meant that promise very literally... But! I'm also not at BW anymore, and at this point this is just my own thoughts, which are very non-binding. (Sorry, that's a lot of words to say "Could be cool, but currently nothing set in stone.")" [source, two, three]

User: "What is Emmrich's preferred tea and how does he have it? Different types for different times of the day?" // Sylvia: "Different types for different times of the day?" I think so, that fits in with his sense of the rhythm of a day. But I'm no tea drinker myself, so I'm happy to let fans imagine what works for them." [source]

User: "Do you have any thoughts about emmrich & marriage proposals, would he prefer to be the one proposing? Or would he be equally excited to be proposed to? Ostentatious, public, private proposal?" // Sylvia: "Re: a proposal, gee. I think he'd be equally excited either way, though he'd prefer it to be a private moment. Somewhere he and Rook can enjoy each other's company and talk about it honestly, just with each other." [source]

User: "1. What was he good at in school besides anatomy? 👀 2. What's his favorite food right now? ✨️👀 3. Did he give Manfred his name himself or did he read the names in the book for Manfred to choose?" // Sylvia: "1. Grasping abstract and metaphysical concepts, and distilling them down into language suited for others, which is handy for both magecraft and professorship. And communing with spirits, so magical control. (I imagine the Watchers prize control greatly, since they work with spirits so closely, they're well aware how dangerous their focus is.) 2. Hrm. Uh...good question. Aside from being vegetarian, I don't think he's a picky eater, but he probably marvels at what a sure and skilled cook Lucanis is. 3. Emmrich likes giving Manfred some (limited, supervised) autonomy. But I think he named his skeleton companion himself." [source, two, three, four]

User: "Did he ever see Manfred as his son?" // Sylvia: "I think consciously, calling Manfred a son seems like one step too far for Emmrich right now, but he's absolutely paternal towards his bright young skeleton child." [source]

Sylvia on Emmrich: "He truly was a team effort. Everyone in level design, cine, art, audio, his voice actor, the other writers and editors contributed greatly to who he is." [source]

User: "Do you think he has a tattoo👀 Maybe a skull or the symbol of the moun watcher" // Sylvia: "I think this is a 'it wasn't shown in game, so I don't want to commit to anything' deal, sorry. (But feel free to imagine whatever you'd like!)" [source]

User: "what subjects did he study well when he was a student?" // Sylvia: "I think probably the same subjects as in the answer to question number 1. Though I do imply in dialogue that the Mourn Watch likes to give its members a well-rounded education in non-magical subjects- history, literature, etiquette etc." [source]

Sylvia: "Hey everyone, I'd like to correct a misassumption I've seen floating around. I saw a few people who saw my name attached to the codex system, and assumed I wrote the bulk of codex entries. That's not true at ALL. Codex writing was split roughly evenly among all the writers. I pitched some style and design suggestions to the narrative team. Then editor Cameron Harris did the actual structure, the docs and training, a lot of the editing, and the importation of all the legacy DAI entries." [source, two]

Sylvia: "Emmrich would be over the moon if Rook wanted to join the Mourn Watch. More time together in the Necropolis!" [source]

User: "From your point of view, do you think Emmrich is jealous? (a little?) I noticed that he liked some things related to the Storm age (he mentions it several times), is that a coincidence or is there a particular reason?" // Sylvia: "-I don't think he's beyond jealousy (few people are!) though it'd depend on the circumstance and what it was about. -Oops! Actual coincidence regarding the repeated mentions of the Storm Age." [source]

User: "1) Did you ever choose the name of the 5th Montilyet sibling? 2) What were the inspirations for her character? 3) If the player doesn't romance her, do you think she'd marry Otranto or would she pass him on to Yvette anyways?" // Sylvia: "1) You know, I never did! It remains unknown. 3) I think Otranto and Yvette are too perfect for each other for them not to get together, so it'd be appropriate if a comedy of errors going on inside the house Montilyet led to that happy outcome if you didn't romance her." [source, two]

User: "Curious how Nevarrans, and specifically Emmrich, would view stuff like Victorian mourning jewelry. Obviously would be horrified by the ones containing ashes, but what about hair? Wondering if it would be seen as special or grotesque!" // Sylvia: "What a good question! I think a lock of hair would be perfectly all right, even romantic. Perhaps a LITTLE bit of bone would be okay, though the actual Mourn Watch wouldn't love breaking up the body. I don't think they'd see keeping a small fragment or such as wrong, just a bit unfortunate." [source]

User: "I love your work and I wanted to thank you. Through how Emmrich is written I’ve realized that dying isn’t an option because there are people that care for me and I would be missed so I’m here and will be Also I wanted to share a song that reminds me of Emmrich’s romance: Deathproof by Graveyard Club" // Sylvia: "Thank you for saying so, Lena, and for sharing that. I'm glad getting to know Emmrich was helpful, even a little, and I hope it continues to be so. And thank you for the song rec! I have a real weakness for synths (may their comeback be eternal) and "You’re nowhere to be found/but you follow me around" is a killer set of lyrics especially." [source, two]

Sylvia on Emmrich: "There was a huge team working on him, and this is just what you hope to hear one day when embarking on making something." [source]

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