#this is not an attack on the original post just some musings!

[daevstroders]

ok so i cant find the post that triggered this but it was something about complaining about the wave of cannibalism/dog/tangerine imagery in modern poetry on tumblr and how 'not everyone can relate to that'

while that may be true, and this theme of imagery is popular now to the point of oversaturation (which i actually just kind of think is poetry in and of itself (metaphors about consuming turning into overconsumption? i love it)) i also think its unfair and shows a lack of understanding to society and to the meaning of the metaphors themselves.

(an analysis of sorts under cut)

in a generation of consumption, where we are no longer regarding media casually but consuming it constantly (tiktok, shows no longer having spaced out emissions, never having to wait for a dopamine fix really etc) is it not incredibly in keeping with the times that we would then turn to a metaphor of complete consumption as love? we love our media, we spend our days consuming it, therefore that being translated into cannibalism for the ones you love, consuming them with the same gusto, isn't as far a reach as it is made out to be. also the idea of all of us, the bad parts, the parts we keep hidden, being devoured as lovingly as the parts we share, speaks to a generation of anxious children who have been trained to perfect a persona that is palatable to a wide audience (see, generation of social media)

following that, the fruit metaphor, which i will admit, can be annoying - the constant tangerines, i get it, its overdone (but again see beginning of the post, poetry in and of itself) but the act of peeling away your layers, your facade that is so intrinsic to todays society of social media where your face on the screen is generally not the same face you wear on a sunday morning, to show your mushy insides, dividing them up and sharing them with the ones you love is inherently relatable. a culture of separated parts of self, the idea that there is a person you are online, at work, with certain friends and a different person with others etc, personas that have been watered down, the idea of giving them over to be consumed with the seeds still in, juice on the edge of too sweet, is cathartic. we dont feel we have the luxury to be our authentic selves for the most part, so the tangerine metaphor is an easy way to both express these ideas, and understand them.

and finally, the dog motif, which i think is the most nuanced of these metaphors - the idea that we are either a man or a dog, that we are the hand that feeds or the hand that takes, gives us a place to explore our humanity and what it means to be human- is all that a man is good for is to give? is all that a dog is good for is to take? (i could go on but this is getting to be too long now) calls back to a lot of older imagery, not to far a step from imagery of waves, the pull of the tide - who is the moon, who is the ocean? is it a steady rise and fall, or is it a raging storm? vs is it a symbiotic relationship, or do we bite the hand that feeds? is the hand that feeds also the hand that hurts? i believe there is so many different ideas to explore within this metaphor, and it is again an easy to digest way of presenting ideas, just like the waves once were.

also i just think the whole criticism really calls back to an age of keeping poetry inaccessible and exclusive. like, these young kids who probably dont have any experience of poetry outside of what is taught in school, are exploring in their own way, finding something easily accessible and easily understood, and are using it as a stepping stone to engage with poetry. this is great!! they may start off with richard silken, nina lacour, maggie nelson, but may go on to engaging with maya angelou, naomi shihab nye, paul tran, and even have a better appreciation for the old canon (eliot, cummings, keats, etc). we had this with rupi kaur guys!!! we need to encourage them to explore, not shun them for it!!

anyway tldr, cannibalism/fruit/dogs are incredibly relatable topics and poetry is for everyone. <3

[raynewolfegirl]

Meta Jazz, the Arkham Intern Therapist Pt1

Update 5/16/2024: Congrats guys, gals, and others! You have planted the seeds and they have grown. Today I wrote another 46 pages on this story (the first section was only 9 pages ya'll). I'm working on splitting it up into smaller sections so I can post it now because tumblr said no to doing it as one piece. I'll be using the tag #Meta Jazz Arkham Intern Therapist if you want to follow it.

Original Note: I'm going to go ahead and apologize for how OOC Bane is in this. It originally was Joker but I couldn't see Jazz tolerating his proximity for more than a single millisecond so Bane it is.

~*~*~

The hardest thing about being a Meta in Gotham was responding appropriately during a Rouge's attack, Jazz mused to herself. Or perhaps that was just the hardest part about being a Meta intern at Arkham while studying psychology at Gotham University. Or maybe it was just her, she considered watching the guards and Dr. Rylie whom she'd been shadowing for the past 2 weeks wide eyed, pale, and shaking as theybstared at Bane behind her. It must just be her, Jazz decided, newbie guard Kyle Jennings was definitely a Meta after all. She should probably give him some tips on hiding his enhanced strength considering how often he broke mugs, door handles, and other delicate items used in daily life.

"Weapons down or I'll snap her skinny little neck." Bane growled out, shaking her slightly for emphasis. She very much doubted that. Liminials were built different than the standard Meta, stronger, faster, better endurance, and senses even if they could mostly appear to be standard humans on the outside.  As such, their bones and muscles were much were much denser than regular humans or even Meta humans. Technically, she could be considered "invulnerable" much like the Kryptonians are.

"Back up! Let him through!" Dr. Rylie  shouted at the guards. "She's my student! Let him through!" His voice was higher pitched than she could recall hearing it before.

Ah. That was panic.

Jazz sighed involuntarily and glanced over her shoulder at Bane. Why the man had grabbed the only person close to his own height nearby was a mystery to her - no, nevermind, he clearly meant to use her as a shield - but it made looking him in the eye more difficult than necessary.

"Mr. Bane, remove your hands from my person, please." Jazz stated calmly, channeling what Danny called her inner mom as she spoke. "I will give you to one to comply."

Bane looked stunned for a moment then laughed.

"Five."

The laughing continued. Jazz could sense a stir of uncertainty through her colleagues as they looked on.

"Four."

"Did you really think that would work?" Bane snorted out, arms tensing more around her.

"Three." She continued, indifferent to his words from her experiences raising her brother. Once the count down starts you mustn't respond to anything the kids do or say until they comply or the count is done.

"What cab you even do if I don't?" Bane asked darkly breathing directly in her ear. She kept her face expressionless despite the urge to express disgust.

"Two."

"Jasmine..."  Kyle whispered halfway across the hall from her looking on with a pained and horrified expression. Gun tilting towards the floor. Sloppy.

"One." She finished and Bane gave a derisive snort.

Then she was moving. Hauling the enormous man up and over her shoulder using the arm that had been wrapped around her neck. Bane hit the cold tile hard enough that the tiles, subfloor, structural supports, and part of the concrete foundation buckled beneath him. His shoulder popped out of joint, his wrist cracked - a hairline fracture by the sound of it -  and his breath was punched out of him from the force of impact. She released his arm as soon as his was embedded in the tiles and moved forward. Kneeling over him, support most of her weight on her left foot resting on the broken ground, her right knees pressed firmly across his throat without supporting any of her weight. The position put more strain on her muscles than she would've liked but at least Bane couldn't risk fighting back without crushing his own neck in the process. He could hardly throw her while flat on his back with a mangled arm.

"Now," Jazz began, looking directly into the behemoth's pained eyes. "Do you know what you've done wrong?" She asked like she would have done with Danny as a child.

"Yes, Ma'am." Bane choked out. Jazz heard movement and murmuring behind her. She didn't turn to look.

"What did you do wrong?" She asked. It was important to make sure children correctly understood why they were in trouble after all. There was a long pause as Bane appeared to cast around for the exact right answer as if he feared getting it wrong. A bad habit Danny still uses as well, Jazz thought to herself.

"I tried to hold you hostage," He choked out in a rush, words tumbling over one another as he tried to get them all out. "I scared you coworkers and it was very disrespectful."

So he'd gone for the grab-bag response. It wasn't wrong per sey but it did indicate a past history of abuse. The type of answer given by someone who expected to be harmed or ignored if they gave the "wrong" answer. Danny tended to use that method also and their parents had always been negligent at best.

"And are you going to do it again?" She asked giving him a Look as she did. Bane's eyes widened and he tried to frantically shake his head as much as possible with the pressure on his neck.

"No, Ma'am." He promised fervently.

"Alright then," Jazz said giving him a warm smile. She gestured vaguely towards the guards without turning to look at them. "Kyle here is going to take you to see the nurse and then back to your room then. I'm sure you'll behave for him?"

"Yes, Ma'am. I'll behave." Bane said. Jazz stood slowly asking sure not to put any additional pressure on his neck as she did. Kyle came and stood next to her as the giant of a man slowly pulled himself to his feet then led him away with 5 other guards.

Jazz heaved a sigh. Well, time to find out whether or not she could play all that off as normal, non-Meta human behavior.

[01zfan]

talk to me | l. sh

boyfriend!sohee x reader | 3.7k words

repost because i kinda messed up on the original post if you’ve seen this before no you haven’t

contains: fingering (fem. receiving)

you and sohee lay on his couch while a tv show plays on his laptop. whatever is happening flies over your heads, focused on more important tasks at hand. you lean against the side of the couch, desperately pulling at sohee’s clothes so he comes closer to you. one hand is on the armrest of the couch, caging your body against sohee. his other hand feels every part of your body, rushed like you might disappear at any moment. 

your lips are locked in a messy makeout session. teeth clash and spit is swapped between the two of you. you an barely breathe and are on the verge of passing out before sohee pulls away from you. you can make out your reflection in his blown out eyes. you see a string of spit connecting your lips to his. sohee sees it too, swiping his tongue to break the string.

you match his appearance, lips glossy from spit and swollen from sucking. your hair is mused to say the least. you run your hands through sohee’s hair just for fun. you get a kick out of seeing the strands stick up twice as crazy as yours.

“do you think we have time?” you ask. 

it was hard to have alone time with sohee. exams and studying had you both on separate schedules. some days you felt like a gerbil on a wheel, running around in circles to do assignments for classes you hated. sohee had his fair share of stress too, workload just as overwhelming as yours. moments like these with sohee helped you get rid of the stress, but being under a time constraint sometimes did more harm than good. sohee grabbed his phone to check his messages.

“we have awhile. my parents told me they’re running errands all day today.” sohee says smiling. 

he smiles all the way to your neck, kissing the skin. you raise your hands to rest on his shoulders, lightly massaging out a hard knot on his back.

“they know im here?” you ask. 

his parents didn’t hate you, but like most parents they were strict. when you came over you had to be in an open space atleast an arm length away. his parents were sweet but there’s no way they would allow for just you two to be alone together.

“got anton to tell them we’re all studying together.” sohee said in between kisses.

after hearing the cover story you can let yourself fully relax into the armrest of the couch. sohee attacks your neck with kisses and bites. you occasionally have to tap his head to remind him that he can’t leave a mark.

“sohee calm down.” you say giggling. 

you lightly push on his shoulders to get him to pull away. his chest is still heaving, he didn’t even let himself fully catch his breath before going back in.

“sorry.” he says kissing your chest. 

you think about what you want next. sohee is only separated from your body by only a few layers of clothing. you put your hands on his arms to get him to stop kissing your collarbone. he stops mid kiss, staring at your skin.

“you say we have time right?” you ask. sohee looks up at you immediately.

“yes we have time. we have all the time in the world, actually.” sohee says a little to quickly. 

you adjust yourself on the couch, sitting up a little bit more. sohee moves backwards a little bit to give you the space you need.

“do you think we have enough time to…” you can’t bring yourself to finish your sentence. 

you don’t have any doubts when it comes to having sex with your boyfriend, you guys have done it a few times before. but something about the word sex just feels so vulgar and a little cringe to you. lucky for you sohee understands what you mean. you think he might’ve gotten whiplash by how fast he nods his head.

“we do. we definitely do.” sohee says quickly.

“okay cool.” you say while looking at sohee. 

you two maintain eye contact for a tad too long, trying to figure out what to do next.

as you reach for your blouse sohee does the same, getting off the couch to quickly take off his vest to unbutton his shirt underneath. you watch attentively as you take of your shirt. 

you rid yourself of your shirt and school skirt quickly. you lay down on the couch in just your intimates. you liked leaving those last garments for your boyfriend to take off. no matter how frantic he was taking off his clothes he always removed yours slowly and with such care. it also made you always super giddy seeing sohee so excited to see your body. you couldn’t help but be excited to when he nearly jumped back on the couch in just his plaid boxers. 

sohee always started with taking off your socks. he brings your legs to his lap to carefully, running a hand up and down your calf. sohee pulls off your socks one by one. it made you feel like a doll how gently he handled you, taking your legs out of his lap tenderly.

sohee comes up from the end of the couch to bring you in for another kiss, his hands massaging your breasts over your simple bra. he almost drools at the sight of your chest and the way your nipple slightly spills out from your bra. sohee finds himself drawn to it, sucking on your half hidden areola. he takes in some of the bra, but he doesn’t care because you arch your back into his mouth and run your hands through his hair.

“help me take my bra off sohee.” you whine. 

your desperation makes sohee move quickly. he reaches his hands behind your back and unclasps your bra on the second try. he carefully bring the back of the bra to the front, helping you out of the straps. when your bra is discarded somewhere in the room, sohee takes in the sight of your chest. he loves looking at them first before taking them in his hands. he’s captivated by your supple skin, kneading your breasts in his hands. you tilt your head to the side and hum gratefully at how sohee is taking such good care of you. 

sohee feels nervous looking up from your boobs to your face. the way you look at him has his cheeks dusted in a rosy red and his ears feeling hot. every time sohee has you like this he gets nervous. he has never been able to explain why he gets so antsy at the thought of you during sex. he is someone who has always driven by pleasure. he worries that sometimes in the heat of the moment he may forget about your pleasure too. the thought of having someone so beautiful in his hands sometimes made the butterflies in his stomach painful to endure. 

but sohee has different things on his mind. why he gets the right to see your bare body or be the one that gets to give you pleasure is a question for a later time. right now, sohee is focusing on the tiny pink bow that is attached to the waistband of your panties.

“this is cute” sohee says, pinching the tiny bow in his fingers.

“i think they’d be better off, yeah?” you say. 

you lean against the back of the couch to give sohee more leverage to take the garment off of you. sohee takes your panties off and throws them in the same pile his clothes are in. if he’s lucky he will be able to put your panties in his pocket as a little souvenir for later.

he has to bite his tongue to not say “wow” at your naked body. the way you are laying for him on the couch has sohee almost seeing stars. even in the dimly lit living room your body is glowing. sohee’s eyes scan over your body methodically, like he is trying to remember every curve, every hair, every square inch of flesh. he can barely focus on anything else.

“can i take those off of you?” you ask pointing at his boxers.

sohee nods and moves to lay against the couch. he maneuvers his body the same way you did yours so you can take off his boxers easily. sohee sees you look over his body, and he wonders if you are trying to memorize him too.

“there’s a condom in the back pocket of my pants.” sohee says, reaching for his clothes pile.

“uhm sohee,” you say quietly. he stops reaching for the clothes to look at you. “”i don’t think you’re hard enough.”

sohee has never had this happen to him before. he was young and always ready to go at a moments notice, especially when it came to you. just the thought of you wanting you had him ready to go instantly. so when you said he wasn’t hard enough, he sat up almost immediately to see for himself. sure enough, he was flaccid. saying he had a semi would be generous. he was mortified as he looked to you.

“oh wow.” is all he could say.

“if you aren’t in the mood, it’s okay. we can just kiss.” you say kindly.

sohee wanted you more than anything, so he was very confused as to why his dick wasn’t with the program.

“i want to. i want to so bad. i don’t know what’s wrong.” sohee said. 

even after giving his dick a few experimental strokes, nothing happened. confused wasn’t the word to describe how he was feeling anymore, especially when he looked at your pretty face covered in worry. he was perplexed by his inability to perform. he ran through his memory bank of things that he had to lock away to not get a boner in public. images of you bending over, calling out his name, and wearing revealing outfits flashed across his mind. still nothing.

sohee still wanted to touch you. any other time he would’ve called it quits, maybe take a nap or something. he blames it on the heated make out session and the fact that you two were alone. he was still tittilated, thinking about your tongue and the bow that was on your panties. he looked at you perched on the couch next to him. you now had your intimate areas covered, but sohee wanted to see all of you more than anything. he completely abandoned his own pleasure letting his dick fall on against stomach. he sits up on the couch, letting his legs fall over the side. sohee reaches to you, and you grab his hand.

“can i touch you?” sohee says. 

you think for a second. although the circumstance of sohee not getting hard is a little peculiar, it doesn’t change the fact that you are worked up and aching to be touched. you nod and move yourself over to him. sohee turns you around and pulls you towards him, letting your back rest on his legs and your head rest on the side of the couch next to him. you adjust a little, letting yourself get comfortable. sohee moves your legs so they bend at the knee. your legs closest to the edge of the couch rests on the coffee table.

“i’m gonna try something okay?” sohee says looking down at you. “tell me if you don’t like it.” you nod and let out a breath, fully relaxing into your boyfriend.

sohee uses his hand to slowly move down your body. like he perfectly split you in half, he uses a finger to slowly trace down between the valley of your breasts all the way to your bellybutton. he slowly traces tiny shapes around your abdomen and places a quick kiss to your forehead. you close your eyes, focusing on his voice and the feeling of his soft hands on you.

“your body is so hot.” sohee says quietly. “you’re so hot it makes me nervous. maybe that’s why i couldn’t get hard.”

sohee laughs dryly as he continues his hand down. you grab onto the bicep of his other arm, desperate to hold onto something. he uses his thumb and middle finger to spread your vagina and uses his index finger to press hard on your clit. your eyebrows raise and you look at sohee, who is locked in on your facial expressions.

“does it feel good?” sohee asks.

you scrunch your eyebrows and nod yes, afraid that you might let out a sound if you open your mouth.

“can i finger you baby? i need to feel all of you.” sohee says. 

he lightly flicks your clitoris, each time making you jolt slightly. 

“yes please.” you moan. 

you are already digging your fingers into his bicep. you try to pace yourself, to gain some composure.

sohee releases his middle finger and thumb from spreading you. he instead uses his thumb to go lower, spreading the slick from your entrance to your folds and clit. you moan quietly, spreading your legs wider for him.

“so wet already baby, how is that possible?” sohee sounds in awe as he plays with your folds. 

it’s never ending, just when you think you’re done producing the slick a new wave comes out. sohees’ mouth is open when he brings his hand from your vagina to hold it in front of you. he taps his middle finger to his thumb, showing you the thin string of your lubricant that connects the two digits together. you wish you could be shy about it but the way sohee is captivated by you only turns you on more.

“it’s because of you.” you say shyly. 

sohee looks at you when he puts his thumb in his mouth, licking you off of him.

“you taste like candy.” sohee says and you open your mouth. 

sohee puts his middle finger in your mouth and you vigorously suck, trying to show him other things you can do with your mouth. sohee gets what you’re trying to show him completely, evident in the way his jaw slightly drops as you continue to suck.

when you’re done, sohee returns his hand to your entrance. you start thinking about how hot your boyfriend is, how he has you laying down on the couch so he can make you feel good. the rush of him touching you in such an intimate way has you bursting at the seams with anticipation. when you start thinking about how goody two shoes sohee lied to his parents to sneak his girlfriend over you start losing it.

“are you doing that on purpose?” sohee asks looking at you. 

you were so lost in your mind you don’t even know what he’s referring to.

“doing what?” you ask.

“your pussy is clenching around nothing. can you feel it?” sohee asks.

his finger isn’t even inside of you but he can feel the pulsing around it. he looks down at your center and spreads your folds to see your clit moving as an effect. 

“holy shit.” he says.

“i need you to touch me.” you say desperately.

sohee doesn’t listen, continuing his ministrations on your entrance. he starts teasing you, barely entering you and pulling out just so he can hear the sound of your wetness against his fingers.

“i love the sounds you make.” sohee says. he looks at your face as you look down and watch him play with you. “i love watching you too.”

before you can beg him to put his finger in, he looks into your eyes. you think that he wants you to ask again, so you open your mouth. when he his middle finger in a moan escapes through your lips. sohee lets out a sigh when he’s in you all the way. while you’re basking in the feeling of his long and pretty finger inside of you, he’s basking in something else.

“you’re so soft everywhere, even inside baby.” sohee says. 

you can’t even bring yourself to respond to him in words anymore, only whimpers, pants, and head nods.

sohee guides your hand down to your center and you look at him on what to do. you know how to finger yourself, but something about how vocal sohee is being with you makes you only want to do what he verbally tells you to do.

“put your finger in with mine.” sohee instructs. 

you put your finger inside. sohee looks at you with a surprised expression on his face. your walls periodically clamps around you and sohee’s fingers. the pace is irregular and only picks up in speed when he looks at you.

“can you feel the way your clenching?” sohee asks.

“yeah i can feel it.” you say moaning. 

sohee gently pulls your finger out and you moan at the loss of contact. sohee puts his index finger inside of you, slowly pumping his two digits in and out.

“don’t worry babe i got you.” sohee says playfully. 

your hold on his bicep turns into a grip as he increases his speed.

you wish you could describe the feeling of sohee’s fingers inside of you. when you two had sex for the first time it was very innocent. slightly rushed, but the underlying feeling was showing how in love with one another you two were. this was different. when you two had sex, barely any words were said. you both were getting used to the feeling of being inside, being so close and connected. you had never heard sohee talk to you in such an intimate moment like this one. the tone he was talking to you in had an effect on you too. he was never the one to tease you so harshly, to talk to you while actively denying you pleasure. it made you dizzy and made you feel like you were on top of the world.

“you like when i fuck you with my fingers?” sohee asked. 

his voice had gotten deeper, dripping with an emotion you couldn’t pinpoint.

“yes sohee. i love it.” you say while nodding your head. 

you’re sure this is a new sight for him too, you becoming a mess underneath him. 

sohee starts getting excited, picking up the speed of his two fingers. you can hear the squelching and your chest starts moving from the force and you squirming underneath him.

“grab your boobs for me sweetheart.” sohee says. you reach to your chest immediately. “push them together for me. yeah just like that.” 

sohee’s fingers are pistoning in and out of you now. you push your breasts together, rolling your nipple in between your fingers. you do what sohee always does, trying to get him to keep going. as he continues, you can feel the winding and churning in your stomach. 

“you close baby?” sohee says, kissing your forehead again. you whine in response and nod your head. you continue to play with your boobs, returning one hand back to hold onto your boyfriend. “gonna cum on my fingers?” he asks.

“can i?” you ask. 

another moan rips through your throat when sohee moves his other hand to your clit. he does revolutions on the bundle of nerves. his fingers inside of you bend and your moans become higher in pitch and you abandon playing with your chest, too focused on trying to finish.

“go ahead. i got you.” sohee coos to you.

the winding in your body snaps and excitement tingles underneath your skin all over your body. your final high pitched and pitiful moan becomes prolonged as you clench repeatedly over sohee’s fingers. you forget your name, you forget everything except for the man looking down at you and talking you through your orgasm. he doesn’t stop the revolution on your clit as you bump and grind your hips into his hand, trying to make the feeling last for as long as possible. you see the color white as sohee continues bending and pumping his fingers inside of you. he spits on his finger and returns it to your clit. the extra lubricant and the overstimulation has you gasping for arm and digging your nails into his arm. 

“sohee. sohee. sohee.” is all you can say. 

“i know baby. i know. you can do it.” sohee says, voice coming down to a whisper.

you can barely comphrehend anything else he says as another wave crashes over you. it knocks you off your feet, takes the words out of your mouth and you are left with a facial expression that shows pure euphoria. sohee revels in the look on your face, the look he helped put there. he tells you every encouraging phrase in the book as your body shakes and your previously arched back slowly comes down. he slows the motions of both his hands down and you are grateful but sad at the same time. you wish you could live in that suspended state for the rest of eternity, just feeling constant pleasure.

when sohee pulls his fingers out of you, you barely have any energy left. he is the one that has to pull you into his arms to give you a loving kiss. you bring a shaking hand to his face and deepen the kiss. you can still taste a little bit of yourself on his lips. you are the one that has to pull away to catch your breath, and try to recover from what your mind, body, and soul just went through.

“was it good?” sohee asks. 

he kisses your cheek as you nod yes, still trying to find enough sanity to speak.

“it was really good.” you say. 

sohee continues to hold you and you pepper his face in kisses, trying to show him gratitude for what he just did for you. he smiles a little bit more with each kiss. as you kiss him and try to find stability on his legs to kiss him more, your hand comes in contact with his dick. it’s no longer flaccid, it’s rock against your hand. precum has his tip sticky, and you move it around to fully cover the area. sohee sighs and leans his head back against the couch. he settles more into the couch as you reach for his pants on the ground. sohee looks up from he spot on the couch to look at you with a condom in your hand.

“i think you’re ready now.”

[novantinuum]

jen's "Hard-Light Hybrid Steven" headcanon dump

Okay so I'm just making this its own post, because frankly at this point... the original post is so hard to get all the pulp out of due to the headcanons being spread over multiple reblogs and half of it being in the tags.

So here we go. Self indulgent headcanon time. This is how I'm now personally interpreting things within the realm of my own fic work and the post-canon storylines that live in my mind. This is NOT, however, a work of meta- I am by no means suggesting this to be what I see as "canon," only having some fun playing around with ideas I think are cool on a speculative fantasy anatomy level. Take it as you will basically, lol. This is ultimately just for me.

With that stated:

"jen what the fuck do you mean when you say hard-light hybrid Steven, what are you even suggesting"

Essentially I am proposing that Steven becomes progressively more hard-light based in form as he ages. When he was born he was two almost entirely separate halves mashed together- organic and gem- and those two halves slowly but surely merge over the years (hard light replacing organic matter) until one day they are literally inseparable, and Steven is one permanently cohesive being... entirely hewn from hard-light, but with a level of anatomical complexity that still makes him a complete anomaly amongst Gems and humans alike. Instead of the innards of his body being solid light, he is still formed of cells- only now, those cells are entirely hard-light.

His gem is somehow mimicking the form of organic matter with a level of detail that's absolutely unobtainable by shapeshifting or tailored reformation alone. Steven has become the single most complex hard-light system to have ever existed.

Some more specifics on how I imagine this merge working:

Much of the "merging" is natural over time, basically his gem branching out new bits of hard-light circuitry within his body as it integrates within his system.

However, this process is sped up significantly by all the spills and injuries Steven deals with throughout his childhood... because his body's instinctive response to injury is simply to replace damaged cells with hard-light analogues. An almost instantaneous patch job.

Steven's component halves being so distinct early on is a large reason why he takes so long to harness many of his powers.

This is also why Steven's (mostly) organic half is so weakened during the split in Change Your Mind- at that point there's a lot about his anatomy that's been converted to hard-light, so it's basically as if White Diamond yanked the power source out.

(Same idea for why he's so weakened during the movie when his gem's on the fritz... his gem's connection with the rest of his body got partially severed for a time, which. Is not Good for someone who at this point is more hard-light than not hard light.)

At a certain point post-canon, it becomes impossible for Steven's organic and gem halves to be separated. They are so tightly integrated that attempting to remove the gem would only poof him.

Now, here's the thing though...

Steven does not realize that Any of this is taking place until the blunt reality of his strange new anatomical nature is put on display for all to see... when he actually DOES poof.

Here is how (in my own post-canon musings, which I have simplified here because y'all don't live inside all the intensive lore that jangles about my brain) I envision that taking place:

So, Steven would be in his mid to late twenties at this point. He's married to Connie, and they have an infant son.

Recently, there was a fairly severe Gem incident that left Beach City and Little Homeworld pretty damaged. Things are still being mopped up from that.

Steven, Garnet, Amethyst, and Pearl head out on a quick mission one day to intercept one of the last few supporters of the Gem who attacked the Crystal Gem's hub of operation, and at first it seems like it's gonna be a straightforward trip.

Then, Steven sees the Gem in question pull a destabilizer wand on Garnet, and- unwilling to watch her to get ripped apart like that again- throws himself in between. He can take it, he thinks. These things never hurt him one bit as a kid

He cannot take it.

He poofs.

His gem unceremoniously falls to the ground, along with the clothes he was wearing and whatever he had in his pockets.

Cue the others going "what the actual FUCK" because based on everything they've ever witnessed and known about him no one had "Steven poofs" on their bingo card.

The insurgent Gem is captured and dealt with, but now... oh, boy. There's literally no playbook for this. Nobody knows what to expect.

Steven's gem is quiet for WEEKS. During that time, the Gems end up consulting the Diamonds on Homeworld to ask for intel on diamond reformation, but none of them are much help- Rose and Steven are the only ones who have actually poofed. Beyond them, this is completely unprecedented.

In a very vague sense, Steven is aware of what must have happened during this time... (even if a part of him wants to deny it, because How???)

He can pick up vague snippets of what's happening just beyond his reach... catching voices and what must be faint sensations of familiar people handling his gem, but beyond that he has no awareness of the passage of time, and he has no means by which to reach out to them mentally.

It takes almost two months for him to finally reform. When he does, his gem quickly shifts through its previous three forms and then just... outright h a n g s for a while on the new one... as if what's trying to "load" up is so complex it's goddamn buffering.

(my brain can only think of This image uyhjfsdbyuhjfg)

No one really knows what to expect but when he finally reforms, he... looks mostly the same? Still rather human in appearance, externally? The only notable difference is that his irises are pink now. (But with no diamond pupil- not unless he's going Full Power Mode.)

Steven also reforms WITH an outfit much like a Gem would.

The second he's back, he runs to embrace Connie (who is sobbing in relief) and asks how long he was out.

And he did NOT anticipate that answer to be two months.

As it turns out, he missed quite a few baby milestones while he was gone, and he feels horrible about it- it's not his fault of course, but he feels so bad that Connie had to go that long without his support, and that there's all those special "firsts" with his son he'll never get to experience.

This whole incident marks Steven's final "retirement" from participating in real combat- he outright tells the Gems to not involve him in any other combat situations unless the whole ass planet is under threat, basically. The potential risks are just not worth it now that he knows how long he'd be out of commission, should he poof once more. He can't put his family through that again.

Now, with all that outlined...

Ways that Steven is Weird now:

He looks rather human- his hair looks like hair and his skin looks like skin- but after he reforms, literally every "cell" of his body is fashioned out of hard-light.

However, if one were to theoretically slice him in half (which I PROMISE I am not going to do, this is only a thought experiment ahahah-), his internal anatomy would glow much like the Gems' do. (See below image for what I mean.) The "human-like" appearance of his skin and hair and other externally visible features does not extend very deep.

He "bleeds" pink now- but it's only surface, and is all just excess hard-light. No real blood.

His body would no longer show up on a radiograph- just the gem.

Many of his anatomical features (not all of them, though) are now vestigial in certain ways-? Like, various functions have overtly been taken over by his gem... he doesn't need to breathe or have any lifeblood beyond light pumping through his system, so his heart and lungs serve no necessary purpose anymore... but all of these organs still "exist" as like an echo of what once was, perfect mimics of their organic form but hewn from hard-light.

That being said, Connie enjoys the reassurance of his heartbeat, so he retains that function while conscious.

(Not to mention, "breathing" is literally just a habit for him by this point.)

HOWEVER, when he sleeps (another thing he technically doesn't Need to do but does anyways) his breathing and heartbeat stops entirely and it kinda spooks Connie out. The literal only evidence she has that he's still kicking during these times is the soft hum of his gemstone.

He does not have a biological NEED for food or water anymore and can fully operate on exposure to light alone, but he still really enjoys eating and drinking anyways. In fact, he's still able to absorb energy from food... so it's basically like he's over-charging his battery or whatever. He also still experiences taste (so still posesses some form of taste receptors) and instinctively feels "hungry" at meal times, so like... the running theory is that he must have hard-light analogues for all these receptors and neurotransmitters and hormones that communicate sensations like hunger in his system even though their function is entirely redundant with his gem powering everything.

Furthermore, his memories and sense of self and everything one might refer to as "the soul" is stored exclusively in his gem now. Which means, if one could manage to analyze his brain like one could with a human brain, there would be entire sections that simply... don't light up the way that others (such as the parts of the brain that govern motor control, as an example) do. This is because all the "data" once stored there has migrated.

He can fully shapeshift now, if he wanted to.

He can also still visually "age"- it's all based on his mental state, same as before.

But despite being hard-light in nature now, he can still interface with organics in fusion because his form is still so organic in shape and function. He's still the bridge between humanity and gemkind. I like to think that... theoretically... a Gem might be able to fuse with an organic too, but the sheer burden of trying to shapeshift and maintain such cellular complexity is what stops this from happening.

Steven, though? His very existence as a hybrid acted as a template by which hard-light could learn to understand organic life. He is still an intensely unique being, even IF he no longer consists of any actual organic matter.

_

I am sure I will probably add something to this later, but for now, those are all my musings.

Anyways, thank you for taking a brief visit to the deepest recesses of my brain, where I am chewing at the drywall and bouncing around the room like a cat who has just devoured the goddamn motherlode of catnip. Good night! !! :DDD

[nights-at-crystarium]

Fragments - episodes 27-30 author notes

You can find similar breakdown posts on older episodes in my pinned!

I make these notes as I work on an episode, however, people have been so attentive and observant with their comments that I started a tag fragments feedback where we dive even deeper into themes and interactions in the comic. These comments are a blessing, often pointing out things that my own brain doesn't register.

Obligatory ShB spoiler warning.

Episode 27 begins with a chat about the original weapons that are merely a stylish-looking convenience for them ic and for me ooc, so that I don't have to draw them lugging their weapons around.

Essentia's just a name for Vivi's spear, not like the whole concept. I introduced it around the beginning of the ShB arc. Alisaie's weapons have no name yet, there's a possibility to do something cute referring to twins.. I shall think of it :3c

Look at this child being all smug for having been able to help recreating something previously thought unique, and, um, flirting.. In her own way.....

Vivi be like, sigh, "ah, back on her bs already... Better indulge her while she's still in a nice mood".

Alisaie's left arm's stronger than both Vivi's. As a dragoon he doesn't only use magic to amplify his jumps, if it works on legs, why not extend it to arms as well? Not unlike what monks do, minus the actual physical training. Basically he cheats with magic in real fights. A casual friendly duel isn't worth expending aether, so he only relies on his actual strength :'>

He also can't do friendly duels because his Echo only telegraphs hostile attacks. A friend would stop before his blade cuts him, so Vivi's kinda blind, only relying on his own average skill. A legendary hero that's no fun to spar with if you're remotely competent.

..Which has no negative effect on Exarch's fanboyism.

Several people said they look forward to said sparring session, and I felt like I failed them because I had no plans to follow through with this. Then I thought some more.. Do we mean every little thing we say or think? Sometimes it's just distracted nonsense. If every action and word were hooks/setups for the story, it'd feel artificial. This's just my opinion, but some scenes have to have idle chatter and musings for realism.

Vivi and Alphi look like door-to-door salesmen, yet the Chais are buying multiples of whatever they sell.

This's a looooooongg post, under the cut we go~

A random thing that thematically belongs here, but didn't make it in the comic: Vivi ended up being more freaked out by Eulmore than Amh Araeng.

Feo "privacy breach" Ul :> They greet each other so casually that it's clear, this's far from being the first time.

One of my personal fav panels so far. People loved the "crystal mystel" so much but I can't take credit for that! My brain's full of soup that's a mix of everything canon and my own generous additions, but I THINK one of the pixies calls him that ingame, sometime post 5.0.

You probably didn't know that you needed more Exarch and Feo Ul interactions till now, I've got you covered. Their scenes will take time to trickle in, but they EXIST and go back as far as their first meeting.

Exactly what happened.

One more episode where Vivi doesn't utter a word, but it doesn't feel like that.

Tank!Exarch fanclub, +1 member. Vivi's pleasantly surprised by the sudden shift in Exarch's demeanor. He genuinely admires him here. "Lead me anywhere daddy".

Ready for a guild wars 1 (one!) joke? No? I'm making it anyway. Lyna casts gaze of contempt (effect: removes enchantments on target foe)

She's such a good daughter with great intuition. She feels uneasy about this way before Vivi feels anything at all. He just looks. Perceives. He has eyes, dammit! And Exarch has those stupid sexy sandals and shiny crystal arm and stylish flowy robes and he's generally kinda cool? It's official, it has begun: Vivi's attracted to Exarch here.

Zooming in super close to bring your attention to his thigh gap <w<

A closeup for the hell of it C: His eyes have a natural faint glow that's just there, it doesn't mean anything, like, genuinely.

Vivi tries to appease Lyna. He has no idea why she keeps glaring at him, probably still not trusting a stranger. He uses his charm as a casual manipulation. Unfortunately, Lyna falls for it. For now.

As per msq, Exarch's kneeling, not collapsing (although that would've been just as fitting tbh). While still not trusting him too much, Vivi slowly begins to respect a reputable ruler and a skilled fighter, and WHY IS HE KNEELING MY LORD GET UP?! Vivi hates being treated like some sort of a messiah. That pushes him further inside the box of being a mythical figure, and denies his humanity.

Normal colors and lighting!! For one episode....

The scene on the left isn't meant to feel cozy and inviting, while the right one is. Sickly, cold, washed out colors vs darker and warmer ones. I'm putting a lot of thought into this, just wanted to celebrate it a lil C:

Episodes 28-29 show Vivi and Exarch's ways of handling unexpected personal hostility. Vivi casually whips out a V and a silly grin, while Exarch.....

He tried, okay?!

A thing on their positioning in this scene that I didn't plan consciously, it just happened: Exarch's framed by the Crystarium, appearing more aligned with it, while the elf pile's surrounded by an idyllic natural frame. Something something about the greenery meaning life, and Exarch looking a bit out of place here.

This's our first, but not last encounter of an imagination theater :>

The dragons are goofy on purpose. Well, sort of. I can count on one hand the amount of times I drew non-humanoid creatures, and the tone here doesn't demand anything super serious from me. Also it makes sense in-character, Exarch probably never saw a dragon up close.

Take a good look at this lil shit. I indulged in illustrating his badass moment before pointing the "camera" away for a while. We're heading into the Il Mheg arc that lasts for months and has no cats ;w;

Vivi's iconic Protagonist Grin >:D

Also, Ryne. Just to keep your expectations grounded: while I personally like her, she has no relevance in this story, and very little screentime. I'm currently having Eden raid brainworms, might write a scene or two related to that, but we're talking many years into the future. Until then, she doesn't do much.

ShB cast's diverse and extremely fun to explore, but if I went on tangents the comic would literally never progress. Gotta be honest, I'm already terrified that some readers might drift away before reaching the wolgraha part of this wolgraha comic. I don't wanna rush OR dilute the main plot too much, if that makes sense. Also, just like in real life, you probably don't form perfect connections with every member of your social circle, some people grow closer than others. Vivi has next to no connection to Minfilia/Ryne, he also stays away from little girls after one of those ended up becoming his lifelong problem *snorts and points at Alisaie*

Desires, and feasting on them? A dungeon meshi nod? More likely than you think.

Feo Ul, sprawled out on his chest like that, visually resembles a burning heart.

Emet antithesis :3c

Imagine loving your pet so much that you let him do this. Feo Ul isn't moved by the physical act AND the joking accusation.

While seemingly slacking for a dozen episodes, Vivi formed bonds with Feo Ul and Ardbert, and thus secured the future of the two stars. Now he has friends that aren't his coworkers first and foremost, that he genuinely wants to fight for. This's what makes him tick as a hero: a quiet plea of a friend, not even asking him directly, a stark contrast to being dragged around and cried at for help. If Vivi's introduction to an entity (person/group of people) is "they suffer, they need help", he shrugs it off. Everyone suffers and needs help, he can't split into thousands of vivis to please them all.

He's only truly motivated to help, or empathizes with those who he gets to know through other means. Take Ardbert, his strange behavior on the Source, then reintroduction that's confusion and companionable snark, but not wailing for help. And Feo Ul, they hang out with him just because, they're safe.

He may not run off to fight the local Lightwarden this instant, but when he gets around to it, he's earnest for a change.

This's all I have for now, thanks for reading!!

[hows-my-handwriting]

Hobie Brown Headcanons

long post ahead. will put as much as i can under the cut but i will have a.... loose table of contents.

and im not feeding you everything. i need more content to drip feed you later.

the inspo is driving me crazy but the hands are refusing to write.

the table: backstory food british animals

lmk if ppl want this to be split up into individual posts per category. cuz its l o n g

BACKSTORY:

Not based on the comics. purely my own attempt at writing his backstory and his particular villains.

Hobie's Doc Oc was a university professor pressured by Osborn's regime to produce weapons. Hobie had met the guy while crashing a university class, but nothing more than that. Octavius snapped and took the revolution to the extreme. he built a WMD and planned to use it on the city. Hobie talked octavius down and disarmed the weapon.

Hobie's lizard was his close friend and bandmate who got jealous over their lead singer's affections towards hobie. they were close friends until hobie started drifting away. curtis was bitter and never really forgave him. the final straw was when hobie returned in full, having just abandoned his spider suit. the band is back together but curtis still has hard feelings. he knew vaguely about hobie's connection with spiderman but thought that it was some kind of special deal or friendship which was just another nail in the coffin. he turns himself into the lizard and attacks hobie, demanding answers and refusing to listen.

the above is just an excuse to hurt hobie really bad >:3 i love my angst and my beating my muses up. i wanted to break his ribs.

electro was a civilian who just happened to get struck by lightning. he is the sole reason hobie has insulated all of his gear and one of the reasons all of his spikes can shoot excess electricity like one of those funky little electrode balls. hobie took one look at this guy and immediately got to work.

Kraven was a bounty hunter hired and possibly engineered by osborn and fisk to hunt down hobie. classic kraven activities. he tried to drown hobie in the thames. hobie managed to escape but couldn't breathe or eat properly for a week after the attack

hobie's ship was hauled from the local junkyard. It was originally just used as a figure head to lead the charge from the government locked dam blocking off water. it somehow survived so he uses it as his hq.

hobie is immune to his scorpion's venom after being stung so many times and stealing samples of it to build up an immunity. yes it hurt. yes it sucked. but it worked. (loosely inspired by a fanfic)

the above are not in chronological order. mostly.

FOOD:

Hobie's world doesn't have a lot of spices. it's a closed state unless importing 'important' materials like lumber, steel and other sciency stuff, food is a lower priority or just a restricted luxury. the spice trade has regressed to something like the 1600s where foreign spices are held by those in power purely as a status symbol. the common man might have access to salt, sugar and cream, but anything else- especially anything spicy- is a luxury item.

hobie would love spicy food. i just dont think he's gotten much exposure to it. day one out of e-138 he opened a bag of spicy chips in the cafeteria, touched one and exploded.

exotic/foreign fruits fall under this same category but for more legit reasons of travel and lack of safe storage. so for example: mangoes, oranges/citrus, kiwi, pomegranates.

boba would freak him the fuck out. he has no idea what those little jiggly things are and its only made worse when one of the kids inevitably shows him the hamster 'is it worth it' meme. he becomes scarred for life.

if you take too long to take a bite out of whatever you're holding and hobie is hungry, he will just lean over and take a bite out of it. sandwich? bitten. spaghetti? stolen off the fork. chocolate bar? wrapper and bar, gone.

his favorite flavor of cake is chocolate or caramel. sue me im projecting onto him

BRITISH

he holds out his pinky when holding cups. it's just an unconscious thing that turns conscious once someone calls it out. in which case he sticks it out even further

flips the police and the royal family off regularly with the one fingered or the two fingered version. will only respect the french for inventing the creative two fingered fuck you, but nothing else.

has a winter fit that is just like a pile of whatever sweaters he has and two scarves. and long socks that make the space in his tight boots even more tight. sometimes cuts off circulation to his feet.

loves going to pubs and just chatting with people. also loves picking fights with the drunk people. Particularly the irish. he thinks their accents are funny and has long arguments with them while they're both speaking absolute gibberish.

knows french but only the insults. has an arsenal of french insults he will just whip out of his back pocket and drop on someone's head.

not really a british thing but i bet he doesn't know how to ride a bike. he was a) too tall and b) not willing to get his entire skeleton rattled by riding over the cobbled streets of london.

wimpy's fan. (its like the british version of mcdonalds but less popular and less famous. according to my research).

ANIMALS

Hobie keeps pigeons. he built a little house when he was bored and was surprised to find three pigeons hiding from the rain underneath it the next day. he didn't really intend to keep them but they nested and he kept bringing them food and water. he did name the brown one hobie jr.

hobie has a cat. again, not really 'has' but rather 'it broke into his boat and wont leave'. he didn't name her because he can't think of a good one. for the longest time he had no idea she was living in his floorboards but later discovered a hole in the side of his boat and found a crawlspace just large enough for a kitten.

he is freaked out by snakes. not as in a fear of snakes. but rather in utter disbelief that they can be the size of a human person. he's read about and probably seen the average snake, about the size of an arm. but anything larger than that will make his jaw drop right off of his face

he did have a symbiote dog for a short time. the dog was badly hurt and the passive symbiote had merged with its body to try and help it. he offered it a place to stay and rest and it happily agreed. it followed him around for the short while they had together and one day went off on its own.

he still sees that dog around (affectionately named 'spider-mutt') and offers it head scratches or belly rubs but they always part ways sooner than later.

loves opossums. thinks they look funny.

part two? maybe....

might add more to this as my brain keeps turning.

[biblicallyaccurateslut]

I just read a re-post of one of my post from a non-gaylor, and I would like to say it was a really good, respectful answer that explained their point of view perfectly and, by any means, this post is an attemp to start beef or anything.

Being said that, one of the points that really standed out to me was how some fans would "force a queer identity on her" (not quoting them, just summarizing) and how twisting lyrics to hold a narrative or using certain interpretation of a song, was not healthy, in reference to the connection I made to the album midnights and Taylors queerness.

Now, I would like to ask, isnt twisting a lyric to fit a narrative how people started saying that Taylor was the "argumentative antithetical dream girl" she refers to in hits different, when is crearly (and is a question of grammar and basic language comprension) refering to the muse of the song?

Bet I could still melt your world, argumentative antithetical dream girl. Are you kidding me?? How could you posible say this makes sense if she was refering to herself???

Then, the paternity test constantly done by swifties to look for the muse of a song is nothing more than a certain interpretation of the lyric to fit the narrative. So that is not a thing exclusive to gaylors, almost every swiftie does it.

Now, that is what I like to call a double standard. I am not shaming the original autor of the post that have inspired this text, but pointing out a more societal problem. Very often, speculation and shipping and reading into things, if done in a hetero way is okay but do not dare to do it in a way that relates to queerness.

About the "forcing a queer identity on her", there is a thing, done through history called flagging. Safo was doing it in ancient Grecee, so did Oscar Wilde and more recently Elton John or James Dean. There are signals of the queer community to signal discretely to other lgbtq+ that they are one of them.

Taylor is not subtle about her flagging. She went out in a bi pride colored jacket to sing "and you can want who you want, boys and boys and girls and girls". She did sing about wearing someone like a necklace. She did spray paint her paint the bi colors to her gay pride music video. Use the lyric hair pin drop more than once. She puts lesbian flag colors as the main lighting in her world wide tour. And much much more. Is obvious, really out there for the people who want to see it to see.

Once you see that, you have no option but to hope she is queer; because if she was not, she would only be a straight girl that harmed the queer comunity by taking all the simbolisim that lgbtq+ people have built througt the ages and making it hetero to the mainstream, erasing the very little history the comunity has managed to create in the opressed world that it had have to endure.

So, even if I think that the answer to my previous post was really well written and respectful, I do not think it is a really nuance take.

PD: To the person behind the original blog that posted the answer, if you have read this and recognised yourself on it, just know this is not a personal attack and I apologize before hand if that felt like that to you.

[princess-of-the-corner]

Not sure I'll write even the whole first chapter, but tinkering with the Sabine!LAdybug & Chat!Chloe fic with some Origins material.

Specifically, this is post Stoneheart running wild & al the students being evacuated to that big arena to wait out the problem.

Sabine Cheng = Madame Vermilion Chloe Bourgeois = Catastrophe

The names don't come up but I wanted to share them, now behold my 1 am musings! XD

-

Adrien found himself leaning against the wall of the grand stadium, Nino & Marinette to one side, Sabrina, and Chloe to the other. No one was really talking even as teachers and other students stretched and theorized or tried to create distractions.

Marinette was dialling her mother over and over again but receiving no response; Nino had a hand on her shoulder even as he occasionally glanced at his own phone.

‘Should I call father?’ Adrien shook his head, ‘No, that would just be… That would just lead to a lecture and him calling me home.’ The last thing he wanted to do right now was make this mess about himself.

He glanced to his side where Chloe was leaning against the wall and scowling out like the entire world was heckling her. It was the sort of aggressive prickliness she usually reserved for well, people she or Adrien didn’t like.

‘I guess the monster attack is getting to her,’ he mused. Or maybe it was that the mayor had delayed an emergency broadcast, not to check if Chloe was OK, but to run his speech by her, because: “I can’t trust the staffs opinion!”

Adrien pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth; fingers gripping the inside of his pockets as he desperately resisted the urge to try and do something… Anything…

Then Sabrina let out a whimper, “My dad won’t pick up.”

“He’s probably been called to daddy’s side; you know how he liked to keep Roger close at hand.” Chloe said with a disinterested air that she… Probably meant to come off as reassuring.

After all, if she wasn’t worried you shouldn’t be either.

Sabrina nodded slowly, “You’re, you’re probably right Chloe- Dad!”

All four of them turned to Sabrina as she dropped down into a squat, eyes wide as she stared at her phone, a grainy recording showed a red headed officer being held up by his peers as he was pulled off the street shouting in agony at his twisted-up leg.

Adrien shot Chloe a glance and he did see the blonde unfold her arms and start making a move before freezing up. Face contorting between a myriad of hard to read expressions as she remained frozen in place unable to act before growling, “Daddy will have him turned into rubble before this is done.”

Adrien could practically feel the glares Nino & Marinette were sending Chloe, at her failure to be there for her friend who was now quietly crying over her phone. Chloe couldn’t look at her, nails digging into her palms she sent Adrien a wide-eyed almost panicked glance before turning her head away.

‘I can’t blame you; I know this is beyond you.'

Adrien dropped down and gently placed a hand on Sabrina’s back, “He’s alive, just focus on that for now,” Adrien said softly, slowly slinking his arm around Sabrina’s shoulder and letting the girl fall against him.

“Yeah, your dads tough right?” Nino said awkwardly, but still putting some heart into it.

Marinette dropped down at his side and took Sabrina’s loose hand in her own, the redhead squeezed back and nodded weakly. Even still her gaze drifted to Chloe who finally bristled and barked, “I’ll be back in a moment!”

She practically launched herself off the wall and didn’t so much as tear through the crowd as she did project so much presence everyone got out of the way with the understanding that if they didn’t, she’d walk over them.

“I can’t believe she just left,” Nino whispered, too quietly to be heard by anyone but Adrien and even then, only barely.

Adrien didn’t say anything, but he didn’t agree at all regardless.

He knew Chloe, knew how she struggled to understand or be understood by other people; how much of a strain her clumsy attempts at comforting him had been on her.

No, he didn’t blame Chloe for knowing what she simply lacked the capacity to do, anymore than she blamed him for never really standing up to his father.

They were a package deal, so he’d comfort Sabrina and she’d go and do all she could to force the world to be what they needed it to be.

____

Chloe slammed the bathroom door behind her and locked it tight.

A quick scan showed she was alone, and so Chloe kicked an erstwhile bin and sent it shattering against the bathroom wall before stalking up to the nearest mirror. Seething, she scowled at her reflections.

Hair subtly askew, a sheen of sweat, breaths too heavy, she was a wreck!

‘Pathetic, weak, unexceptional! You are a joke!’

Nothing was going right, she couldn’t even think to put her hands around Sabrina like Adrien had, her promises of retribution apparently meant nothing and now Marinette was closing in on her friends and monsters and-

Chloe slammed a flat palm against the mirror, a shot of pain ran through her arm as the glass cracked ever so slightly. The burning ache running through her fingers forced things back into sharp clarity, at least for a moment as she pressed a hand against her chest and made herself breathe deeply.

‘I am a good friend!’ At least...

Insomuch as she knew how to be things like good or friend.

Fighting back a snarl, Chloe tore open her purse and began tossing anything and everything from its confines into the sink. Intent on finding her phone to demand her father bring in tanks and bombers to finally end this insanity. Then she could fix her hair.

OOF GIRL

[buckybarnesss]

on fire: a teen wolf novel chapters 4-6 chapters 1-3 here

cox communications doesn't respect 3rd shift workers so last night i had to go into my brick and mortar office. i was able to get a lot of reading done but due to rules and regulations i was unable to write down my thoughts as i went. instead i used those little sticky note tabs to mark passages of interest so that's why this post took a little bit longer as i had to review what i had marked.

anyway.

our national nightmare continues.

ngl this book is weird. it's bizarro season 1.

it's non-canon compliant post-episode 5 the tell. i genuinely do not understand why they just didn't tap nancy holder to write a novelization of season 1.

warning: kate argent's existence and general grossness.

so buckle up buttercups here's a preview of what's to come:

we start this chapter from kate's point of view and it makes me feel dirty already. cast it into the fire, isildur. she’s just vile. just look at these nauseating quotes that she has all within the first page: 

“nothing beat the feel of cold, hard steel -- unless it was the rippling muscles of a well-built man.”

this bitch.

”god, all those muscles. the last time she’d seen him, he’d still been in high school. still a kid. a stupid, gullible kid, who should have died in the hale house fire along with the rest of his family.”

tell me again how the intention wasn't for derek to have been a minor when kate was grooming him? tell me fucking again.

“maybe she should’ve taken advantage of derek while he’d been down on the floor, writhing from the nine hundred thousand volts she’d sent skittering though his kick-ass body. for old time’s sake.”

chris and victoria are there too, being way more normal about things. they brought egg salad and cold cuts which feels like it’s hitting the beat where victoria comes in with cookies in the show. 

despite having grounded allison for her skipping school with scott on her birthday they are perfectly fine with her having not only a study date with lydia but allowing her to sleep over. it’s apparently to cover the arrival of a shipment of weapons. kate isn’t impressed that they’re still hiding everything from allison and disappointed there isn’t some super-special weapon in the shipment. 

this entire time she’s being weird and kind of sexual about an uzi. like, fuck off kate. 

now we’re back to scott and allison at the seedy motel plot where they are trying to locate jackson. “scott’s first instinct was to throw his arms around allison and duck, but she yanked the door open and barreled inside the motel like a superhero.”  uou are goddamn right, scott. that is ally a. 

the motel is basically an off the books brothel. one of the patrons supposedly saw something in one of the windows when he went open it for a smoke but saw something that scared him causing a heart attack. allison and scott ask a few people if they’ve seen jackson then have to book it when sheriff stilinski shows up.  these two idiots duck down in her car. i think we see stiles and scott do this a few times in the show.

lydia calls allison freaked out that she hadn’t called her back yet and harkens back to the tell by saying “a....window?” when they tell her about the man having a heart attack and scott describes her as sounding odd. i appreciate that lydia's trauma isn't being ignored because that just happened to her in the tell.

all this use of the generic where’s my phone app and using conference calls to sneak around feels like an adaptation of the plot beat in wolf’s bane.

the sterek agenda continues. derek and stiles spend a significant portion of the coming chapters together much like they do in the back half of season 1. it starts with the possible origin of the derek being in stiles’s room trope. stiles muses over the text he’d received from scott about the incident at the motel and as if being summoned derek is just suddenly there in his room. look at this bullshit:

he texted back, muttering, “so, scott, saw what? saw derek?” “yes?” derek said from behind him. “yeaoww!” stiles shouted. he turned around to find derek leaning against the wall. he did that on an irritatingly frequent basis, both at scott’s house and casa stilinski. he was wearing his black leather jacket and he looked especially pouty and broody. “could you not do that anymore? it is so not cool.”

irritatingly frequent basis? how many times has derek randomly appeared in your room stiles? and i’m sorry “especially pouty and broody”? what a totally super casual observation that is.

it gets even better. derek questions what scott is doing and stiles deadass answers “doin’ stuff.” which naturally irritates derek and derek requests stiles tell scott he wants to meet him. they’re interrupted by the sheriff calling for stiles to which we get:

“gotta go get that.” Stiles pointedly shut down his desktop -- Derek actually growled -- and slid his phone into the pocket of his jeans. “don’t touch anything.”

derek why are you growling? weirdo.

stiles talks to his dad and probes for information about the motel guy and they discuss his homework. it's actually a pretty great conversation between the two and pretty much the only time it occurs in the book.

there’s a mention of stiles’s mother and the sheriff asks stiles if he’s taken his adderall that day. so again, clearly whatever notes holder received very much indicated stiles's ADHD.

back in stiles’s room we get derek pointedly having ignored stiles’s directive to not touch anything: “he zoomed back into his room to find derek clacking away on his computer keyboard.” and “hey,” he said. “keep your paws off.” derek gave him one of his trademark sour glares.” this just continues to confirm for me that holder received some kind of outline of character and plot beats. casa stilinski? sour glares? derek and stiles doing investigative work and going to a hospital? stiles having a low key bisexual crisis over derek? it’s all there. i mean bro look at this:

“look,” derek leaned toward him and the hairs on the back of stiles’s neck stood straight up.”

and the banter:

“but don’t do anything wolfy in my jeep,” he said, opening his door and peering into the hallway. the coast was clear. “like stick our head out the window to let your tongue hang out --” “shut up,” derek said. 

here's another werewolf moment i find rather intriguing. scott and allison have made it to the preserve by this point still hot on the trail of jackson who lydia had told them was somewhere in the preserve. scott has a moment where in his mind he hears the how of a wolf. it says “an echo inside an echo” and “one wolf calling to another. seeking the pack.” that's pretty cool and it's not something shows up in the show.

jackson has finally arrived. i miss this asshole. he's in the woods being pissy about meeting the private investigator that had left him a note and a picture of his supposed biological father.

jackson’s perspective on what happened in magic bullet is just [chef’s kiss]. he refers to derek as scott’s drug dealer.

“mccall’s creepy drug dealer had shown up at school. when jackson had stood up to him, he’d grabbed him by the neck, and, like, gouged him with his fingernails.”

in jackson’s narration something caught my eye. “things had been fine before the start of the school year. Then it was almost as if McCall had concocted some kind of scheme over the summer to ruin his life.” so not only is this book an AU of season 1, the time frame seems off. the show starts the first day after their winter break in january. wolf moon takes place during the episode. the book places this before wolf moon has occurred which comes up later in derek’s narration. 

 this is such a good line and is a window into jackson’s mentality: “everyone wanted something jackson had. it was usually money or popularity. the secret? they were exactly the same thing.”

allison and scott are still in the woods. they’ve been kissing for a while but then they run into a wolf. they are really so soppy in this book and it's both accurate and annoying. allison is awed and scott is quietly panicking. allison goes on about how she thought it was beautiful and scott’s mind wonders if he’ll ever turn into a wolf like how Laura did. which, lol, no baby because you never make peace fully with being a werewolf. 

annnnd we’re back to the stiles and derek plot line. they’re playing dress up. i kid you not. these two are pulling a dean and sam. 

“my new best friend and i are at the hospital.” stiles said, twirling the listening end of a stethoscope in a little circle. so far he’d been unable to hypnotize derek with it.

there’s another small dig about derek not being a real person in stiles’s narration. this book hates derek, okay but i have a lo more on that later. for now these two idiots infiltrated the hospital by pulling the old stand by of Looking Important. stiles has a conversation with scott which is invoking wolf’s bane so hard:

“and you’ll never guess what. you can get past hospital security if you steal a white coat out of the storage room and parade around with it and a clipboard.” derek grunted. he was the one holding the clipboard, but he had passed on wearing a lab coat.”

stiles continues his observations of derek like the freak4freak he is:

“stiles covered the phone, “he can’t talk about wolfie matters,” he reported back to derek.  “because he’s with her,” derek said, looking even more dour than usual. stiles had never realized there were so many degrees of the brood until derek hale came into their lives.”

there’s a bit of back and forth regarding scott reporting that he and allison saw an actual wolf. derek’s disbelieving and cranky to which stiles ponders this totally normal thought:

“maybe if he gave derek a sugar cube -- or threw him a piece of raw meat -- derek might cheer up. stiles would have to try that someday. but today wasn’t looking good for that.”

derek then snatches stiles’s phone to question scott’s whereabouts. he is still cranky. meanwhile stiles is reading derek’s body language and it’s way too detailed for a normal person. like, stiles no one cares derek’s hand is in his jacket pocket while he grumps at scott and emphasizes “like always”. stiles how hard have you been watching derek? he may have complained about derek showing up in his room unnaounced but he's like

before we get into derek’s narration which ooh boy guys you aren’t ready. stiles and derek have their classic bickering-bantering some more. 

derek’s insisting stiles take him to the preserve so he can scent scott out. stiles is appalled and is like “oh my god derek you weirdo there’s an app for that.” and gets a little red riding hood dig in.

derek refuses to admit stiles has a point but orders stiles to give him his phone. stiles all but says Fuck You No and derek brings out his oldie but goodie:

“tell me or i’ll rip your throat out.” 

stiles probably thinks “don’t threaten me with a good time” but instead he says that he knows derek’s not telling him everything and insists he’s going with derek to find scott. 

it ends on this exchange:

“all right,” he said, “but we’ll take your jeep.” stiles huffed. “why can’t we ever take your car?” 

alas the camero. we barely knew her.

now we switch to derek’s point of view to narrate and so begins a piece of characterization that i don’t like, isn’t actually accurate to the character at any point in the series and frankly chaps my ass. i’m just going to give you all the paragraph as a whole.

“hey, you have to take me with you.,” scott’s annoying little sidekick insisted as derek stalked out of the hospital. derek took a tiny bit of satisfaction in the way the human had to trot along to stay abreast. he was sick to death of taking the weakness of humans into account while formulating his plans. de respected power, and few humans had any.”

besties, this book may very well be the origin of Derek Thinks Humans Are Weak trope. now, i’m sure some of you are like heather aren’t you perhaps being a tad dramatic? 

no. no i’m not. at first i considered this might be because of derek’s experience with kate. it would make sense that perhaps based off the information holder had that derek might be wary but than this fucker drops this line:

“werewolves didn’t share information with humans, ever.”

but he follows this thought with this:

“except for him, derek hale. he had shared information with a human. he hadn’t meant to. and the results had been disastrous.”

i will definitely get into more detail about this attitude he has because it really comes out in some later chapters because ooooh boy y’all ain’t prepared for the nonsense ahead. in actual canon derek never behaves this way or express this kind of opinion about humans. it stands out starkly in contrast to the episode this moment is paralleling in wolf’s bane. derek thinks stiles is annoying but not because he’s human. 

we end this chapter on jackson’s point of view. de had met with the so-called private investigator and they tit-for-tatted and jackson bolted when he sensed danger in the woods. now he’s lost in the woods. he’s scared, doesn’t want to admit it and sends a text to lydia.

it's here in these chapters where i realized that the character of deaton is missing entirely. since all of season 1's plot past the tell is omitted deaton's significance went with it.

also the mystery of the alpha is present but she's unable to really do anything with it so peter's presence is still regulated to comatose burn victim.

[dragonkeeper19600]

How I Would Fix Houseki no Kuni

By now, you guys are probably more familiar than you’d like to be with the numerous posts I’ve made about what I see as the many narrative failings of Houseki no Kuni.

I’ve already written extensively about my gripes with this train wreck of a manga, and as much as I’ve said already, I could keep going. However, over the past few days, I’ve found myself wondering what I would change to make the story stronger. After all, it’s easy enough to identify a problem with a story, but it’s a great deal more challenging to come up with a solution. I’ve already suggested some potential changes in other posts, but I thought I’d assemble all of my brilliant ideas in one convenient location.

So, without further ado, here’s how I would fix the garbage fire that is Houseki no Kuni:

First, I’d have Phos keep the encyclopedia job longer. It always seemed weird to me that this story mechanic was dropped so soon after being introduced, and I don’t think that was to the story’s benefit. Phos becoming more devoted to and more competent at the encyclopedia job would showcase his growing maturity, plus it would lead to a growing curiosity. A big part of what sets Phos apart in the original story is how willing he is to question things that the other gems don’t, such as Sensei’s possible connection to the Lunarians or whether there’s another job for Cinnabar. You could have his desire to learn more come from his desire to get the encyclopedia job right because he’s already fucked up everything else he’s ever attempted, so this is his last chance to be good at something.

Similarly, I would not make Phos a fighter, or, at least, I would wait until later in the series to make him a fighter. Manga and anime is already oversaturated with stories about people who learn how to fight. Having a protagonist who’s strong suit is not fighting would make Houseki no Kuni stand out from other seinen series. Instead, Phos’s usefulness to the war against the Lunarians would be as a tactician, using the information he’s collected from other gems (such as Alexandrite’s obsessive knowledge of the Lunarians) and his own observations to help the other gems fight more efficiently. Phos accepting that he isn't cut out to be a fighter would be yet another sign of his maturity. In my version, after he gets his new agate legs, he decides he can ditch the encyclopedia job and become a fighter like he’s always wanted, just like in the original story. However, after he sees the Amethyst twins shattered by the Lunarian weapon made from Sapphire, he realizes battle isn’t cool and badass like he thought but scary and really tough, and he decides the encyclopedia thing is where he’s needed.

Of course, Phos would be forced to take up arms and finally fight later in the series as the war with the Lunarians is ramping up. Phos would have a moment to muse on the irony of finally getting to be a fighter just like he always wanted after already deciding he didn’t want it anymore.

One more thing about combat is that the gems would wear actual armor into battle. Red Beryl’s job wouldn’t be just to make cute moe moe outfits for the gems to strut their stuff in but to forge armor to protect the gems from the Lunarians’ weapons. The Lunarians would find ways to get through the armor, of course, but it would be better and more believable than sending these rocks into a war zone wearing but ties and shorts too tiny to pass a public school dress code. The gems can still wear their uniforms when they’re just hanging out at the school, that’s fine, but when they go on patrol, they suit up in fucking armor. The fact that they don’t wear their armor around the school could actually lead to some tense scenes where the Lunarians attack the school directly and the gems there are caught unprepared and underdressed.

Phos’s motive for not hibernating during the Winter Arc would be, again, to observe Antarcticite and the winter season for the encyclopedia. However, and this is big, by the time winter ends, Phos would come to blame Sensei for Antarcticite’s shattering. This is a change I suggested in a previous post. The exact scene I described back then is that Phos sees Sensei shatter Antarcticite himself, but I don’t think you need to go that far. Phos’s blaming of Sensei doesn’t even need to be justified; he could just be lashing out at Sensei out of misplaced grief. But something needs to happen during the Winter Arc, while everyone else is asleep, to make Phos suspicious of Sensei. Perhaps Phos actually sees the Lunarians surround Sensei and tug pleadingly at his clothes, like they did in the actual manga, and comes to realize that the Lunarians and Sensei are connected. Perhaps Sensei hesitates to strike back against the Lunarians, because he’s guilty about not being able to help them or whatever, and that hesitation leads to Antarcticite being shattered.

At any rate, by the time winter ends, Phos is the only witness to this suspicious side of Sensei, and he finds that nobody will believe him about what he saw because the others are all refusing to accept that Sensei is less than perfect. The only one who’s willing to listen to Phos at all is Cinnabar because Cinnabar is grateful to Phos for listening to him. Plus, since Cinnabar is already isolated from everyone else, he’s less willing to keep so strictly to the party line. While he still loves Sensei, he’s less complacent than the others. I suggest these changes to the Winter Arc and its fallout because I always thought the chain of events that led to Phos being suspicious of Sensei in the latter half of the anime was pretty week, plus Phos being able to turn to Cinnabar for support would make Cinnabar a more prominent part of the story instead of getting shunted aside like he is in the manga.

Speaking of the Lunarians, I would change basically everything about the Moon. The Moon is not a high tech, utopian society full of karaoke bars, ramen joints, labor unions, advanced laboratories, and all that other stuff, but a surreal, Lovecraftian landscape that looks as beautiful as an ink painting of the Pure Land but is actually nightmarish and hostile. The Lunarians are supposed to be the tormented souls of human sinners unable to pass on to the afterlife, and their world should reflect that. In my version, the Lunarians have been driven insane by their long perdition, and while they look like divine figures from a Buddhist scroll, their behavior is so weird and alien to the gems that they find it hard to believe that these creatures were ever human. They can’t even communicate with the gems because their minds have deteriorated to the point that they can’t even understand language. The only Lunarian who’s coherent and rational is Aechmea, and even he’s starting to lose his sanity after running the asylum by himself for so long. 

Aechmea himself would also need to be radically changed. Somewhere along the way, the manga kind of forgot that Aechmea was supposed to be the villain. They try for this reveal that Aechmea was actually benevolent all along, and it 100% doesn’t work because A. a lot of his wicked acts are just gratuitously cruel and don’t further his supposedly well-meaning goals at all and B. the Lunarians aren’t really suffering anyway. To fix Aechmea, his sympathetic qualities and his villainous qualities both need to be enhanced.

So, my version of Aechmea is a well-intentioned extremist who chose the path of the bodhisattva but doesn’t have the supernatural patience and wisdom necessary to handle it. His backstory would be the same, but because my version of the Moon is a hellscape where he’s the only sane person around, his desperation to get Sensei to pray to free both the other Lunarians and himself is way more understandable. At the same time, the story would condemn the cruel things he’s doing by pointing out that he’s got no right to make the other races suffer just to save his own people. Aechmea would be portrayed as a lost soul, pitiful, yet misguided. And, above all, the Lunarians’ salvation cannot come about because of Aechmea’s manipulations. The story needs to show that the path Aechmea is choosing to try and save them is the wrong one.

On a similar note, Aechmea can’t make Phos into a human. I’ve already made a separate post about this note, and the reception to it was pretty positive. If Phos becomes a human/enlightened/bodhisattva/whatever, it needs to be in spite of Aechmea, not because of him. Phos needs to become human through his growing experience and his own choices, not Aechmea’s. 

Instead, in my version of the story, Aechmea chooses Cairngorm as Sensei’s replacement. Aechmea chooses Cairngorm because Cairngorm has been sealed inside of Ghost Quartz for most of his life, and thus, has never had any real agency. Hell, maybe Ghost Quartz is shattered specifically so Aechmea can then swoop in and claim Cairngorm, all so he can groom him into becoming a new prayer machine. It’s a sad fact that abuse victims are often abused multiple times in their lives by different people, and oftentimes, their current abuser is someone who “rescued” them from a previous abuser. When Aechmea “frees” Cairngorm from Ghost Quartz’s influence, he portrays himself as a savior who will show Cairngorm what he’s “really meant to be.” Aechmea and Cairngorm’s relationship in the manga already comes across as super predatory and sus, so I think the story would be better if it actually acknowledged that Aechmea grooming Cairngorm is bad instead of portraying their wildly unequal marriage as the “happily ever after” that it does.

Phos, on the other hand, would become a foil to Cairngorm because their growth and change happens because of their own choices and not because of Aechmea’s (you know, like the opposite of how it is in the manga). Phos would also choose to replace his body parts, instead of his body parts being lost through circumstance or being swapped out for him by other people. Him losing his legs can still be an accident, but it has the effect of showing Phos that his inclusions are special because they can assimilate basically any other material while still leaving Phos’s consciousness in control. However, after he gets his agate legs, every other new body part has to be a deliberate acquisition. For example, when he finally decides that he has to fight, he intentionally seeks out the gold alloy to replace his arms, whereas in the manga and anime, his arms were taken away by the ice floes, and replacing them with gold alloy was Antarticite’s idea.

Finally, the ending. In the manga, Phos is essentially tricked into enduring 10,000 years of mind rape to become the new prayer machine. In my version, Phos chooses to undergo the 10,000 year transformation, knowing that it’ll be tortuous and awful, because he’s willing to make that sacrifice to bring the Lunarians peace and finally end the conflict. The gems don’t become Lunarians in this version. My version of Lunarian society isn’t idyllic the way it is in the manga, so the gems wouldn’t want to join them, plus my Lunarians don’t have that kind of technology anyway. The sacrifice in this case is that Phos praying will also cause the gems that have been shattered to pass on as well, meaning Phos will never see Antarcticite again, and all the other shattered gems will be dead for good. But Phos is okay with that because 1. They realize from their interactions with the Lunarians and Yellow Diamond’s declining mental state that immortality is a curse and 2. They’ll still be around, and they’ll still remember Antarcticite, which is specially poignant because Phos has lost so many of their memories by now. 

There’s also some tension because when Phos makes this choice, no one is sure that he’ll be able to handle the nightmarish transformation without going insane the way the Lunarians did, and there’s a chance he’ll emerge after the 10,000 years as some kind of monstrous eldritch abomination. And because he looks so weird and alien after the transformation is complete, the surviving gems aren’t sure if he’ll actually be able to pray the Lunarians away or if he’ll become a new threat.

But, ultimately, he shows that the transformation was a success, and he prays all of the Lunarians away. Yes, even Aechmea, because for all the evil he’s done, he also lived every day in pure agony, so there’s no point in punishing him any further.

The surviving gems would still be alive, as would the Admirabilis. (Yeah, the plot point about the living races descended from humanity also being wiped out in the prayer is really contrived and makes no sense, so I’m chucking it entirely.) Phos, however, would no longer live among the other gems because he’s become so enlightened that the other gems can’t relate to them anymore. So, Phos remains aloof. But the other gems know where he is. When a gem is finally ready to die, they seek out Phos, who will ensure that they pass on. Phos vows not to pass on himself until the last gem has been shattered. Phos, the little gem everyone called worthless, has become the benevolent bodhisattva that both Aechmea and Sensei failed to be. End.

[scathingsniper]

Pinned

"My second slot will go to a nicer character," I said, like a liar. Some general notes for interactions and castmates:

Shinon is one year post-RD. He's currently a bow instructor for the Golden Deer, but originally took another job in Crimea that brought him to Fódlan (what do you mean there are other continents that aren't underwater). He still calls himself a member of the Greil Mercenaries, and this position is just for the money.

Shinon is mean and hard to get along with. He never grows past this, and although he’s aware of how cynical and hateful he can be, he also believes that he’s entitled to these feelings. For this reason, I don’t intend to soften how he comes across. He will be rude to other characters in the group, especially laguz, and he will say things to them with malicious intent. If you’re uncomfortable with this possibility, please tell me at the beginning of an interaction, or limit your muse’s interactions with Shinon.

Related to the above, Shinon hates all laguz and can be pretty offensive when talking to them, but I will never bring real-world slurs into my writing. Any hateful language will be nonsensical and fantasy-based. This is intended to offend the muse but not the real life person on the other side of the screen.

Shinon does make exceptions for beorc and laguz who earn his respect, however. He’ll be on better behavior around the laguz royals. Everyone else has to impress him first. Or not. Conflict is a fun and exciting part of RP, and characters don’t have to get along to have a fulfilling thread. I do understand that there is sometimes the possibility of a belligerent character latching on to something that the other mun didn’t necessarily mean or intend to come off a certain way, and that can create friction OOC. If I’ve written Shinon attacking something that makes you the mun personally insecure, then please tell me and I’ll reel it back. Muse =/= mun so I don’t want my character hurting anyone’s real life feelings.

His hobbies are... drinking. He has been noticeably drunk in canon. This will probably come up in threads, but if the topic or the behavior makes you uncomfortable, please let me know.

Most of this can be found on his rules page.

I love writing mean and abrasive characters, but at the end of the day, I want us all to be having fun. Please communicate your limits with me and both of us will have a grand ol' time. Thank you!

[gingerel]

promptis | body swap

This was originally posted in two parts on my twitter, but posting here as one thing.

Part One

Some attacks they just can’t dodge.

Sometimes there’s not enough time to move or doing so leaves someone else vulnerable instead. And sometimes the attack is a cloud of thick, acid green mist that explodes two feet to the left of Prompto and expands to encompass him faster than he can blink.

It fills his nose and throat, making his eyes stream. Noct calls his name but Prompto can barely hear him through what feels like cotton wool stuffed in his ears. Prompto drops to his knees just as a hand grips his shoulder.

The world tilts, completely twists upside down and sideways and when it stops he’s standing somehow. The mist is gone but there’s thick slime clinging to the grass underfoot in its place.

Prompto’s clutching something, he realises and he drops his eyes to his unusually pale arm and follows it down to see his fingers clenched in the shoulder of his own vest. Prompto blinks to try and focus his eyes because -

“What the fuck?” Prompto says but his voice sounds like Noct's voice and the person on the ground - him, that’s him - turns on their knees to blink up at him.

“Prompto?” his own voice sounds.

“Are you both alright?” Ignis asks, “Prompto? Are you confused?”

“Yes,” Prompto says, using Noct’s voice again, “I’m very confused.”

“Noct,” Gladio says, “Stop fucking around.”

“I’m not,” the Prompto on the ground says.

“I think we might have discovered a new status effect,” Ignis says, remarkably calm. “You should both take a remedy,” he says practically.

To be fair, they've seen weirder and worse at this point.

When Gladio takes a step forward Ignis throws out a hand to keep him in place.

“I don’t want to know what it’s like to be that broad, thank you,” Ignis says smartly, “Best not to touch the residue.”

“Noct?” Prompto says and his own head nods at him, “This is so weird.”

“Can you access the armiger?” Ignis asks and Noct looks away from Prompto and lifts a hand. He summons a vial into his hand then fumbles and almost drops it to the ground.

“Smooth,” Gladio mumbles.

“Shut up,” Noct snaps, “It’s not my fault, it’s Prompto’s body.”

“Hey.”

Noct smashes the remedy and the magic washes over his skin. He shudders and looks up at Prompto hopefully but nothing happens.

“You too, Prompto,” Ignis suggests and Prompto thinks one of the vials into his palm too. It’s a cool rush, like it always is, like washing off something itchy, but nothing life altering happens.

“They’re still covered in it,” Gladio suggests, “You guys should wash off in the river and try again.”

“You might need to sleep it off,” Ignis muses.

-

Noct huffs in the sleeping bag over from Prompto’s - does Prompto always sound that whiny? - and rolls over. Prompto gets it; he can’t get comfortable either. Noct has broader shoulders than him but his legs are thinner and that inch he has on Prompto must entirely exist within them because Prompto can’t seem to settle them down in a way that doesn’t feel awkward.

Prompto had always kind of thought he hated his body; he wishes he were just a little taller and that he didn’t tire so easily but he misses it now he’s existing elsewhere. Cleaning up had been awkward and embarrassing, wading into the water fully dressed and slowly shedding their sodden layers one by one. The water was clear and did nothing to hide any part of them and they soon quickly realised it was less awkward to stare at the body changing next to them - their own - rather than down at their own limbs for a change.

Noctis hadn’t taken his wristband off though. For that Prompto is thankful. He hadn't even needed to ask.

“Are you always this cold?” Prompto asks, curling his - Noct’s - toes over to clutch at the thick socks he’d thrown on before laying down.

“Pretty much,” Noct admits.

Prompto doesn’t follow up with a question to ask if Noct’s back always hurts this much or if the ache in his knee ever subsides. He already knows the answer to that and neither of them will be soothed by having it said aloud again.

Noct huffs again and then he’s moving, nylon sleeping bag dragging across the tent floor until he’s right up against Prompto’s side.

“Um, hello?” Prompto whispers in shock.

“You won’t get to sleep if you’re cold,” Noct tells him and Prompto supposes he would know.

“Right so -”

Noct wiggles until his body is curled around Prompto’s, almost half resting on top of him where he can't grab him with his limbs like he might in a real bed.

“Excuse me,” Prompto croaks.

“Shut up, you do this all the time,” Noct mumbles.

It’s true, but he normally does it in his sleep and wakes up so long before Noctis that he’d assumed his friend had no idea.

“That’s not -”

“Sometimes I don’t sleep until you do,” Noct says, voice so quiet Prompto almost doesn’t hear him.

“Oh.”

Noct shifts again, like he can’t quite settle. “Your shoulders are so bony,” Noct complains.

Prompto scoffs, “If you wanna talk about bony we can talk about your butt.”

“Boys,” Ignis snaps.

“Go to sleep,” Gladio demands. 

Part Two

When Prompto wakes up in the morning still with too long legs he feels like he might cry.

He feels awful, but he doesn’t know if it's the after effects of the spell or simply what Noctis has to deal with every morning. It would go some way to explain why he’s always in such a foul mood in the mornings and Prompto vows to never make fun of him again - maybe see if there’s anything he can do to help.

Noct is gone, Prompto realises, the warmth of the other body absent and Prompto wonders if it was the slow retreat of his lingering warmth that had woken him up. When he finally musters the strength to crawl out of his sleeping bag and onto the haven he’s greeted by the sight of his own body helping Ignis at the cooking station, chattering away in much the way it’s normal inhabitant does rather than the one residing there now.

“Good morning,” Prompto says, Noct’s voice sounding rougher than normal.

“You look like shit,” Gladio tells him.

“Thanks,” Noct mumbles on his behalf, “Real nice, Gladio.” He abandons Ignis at the stove and approaches Prompto, mouth drawn tight with concern. “Your back hurts,” Noct says, very matter of fact.

“Yeah, how did you -” Prompto cuts himself off. Of course Noct would know.

Noct rolls his eyes and steps up close to his side, palm flat against Prompto’s spine he digs his fingertips up to just under his shoulder blade and rolls them over a muscle. It’s agony for a moment then a little trickle of bliss right down Prompto's spine. Noct can’t seem to quite look at him - himself, Prompto supposes - eyes fixed over Prompto’s shoulders as he zones out a little

“Wow,” Prompto mumbles, “Thanks.”

Noct keeps going for a moment then, almost idly smooths his whole hand up and down Prompto’s spine. It’s new and a little odd, but it feels good so Prompto doesn’t ask him to stop.

Gladio clears his throat and Noct suddenly jumps back, shaking out his hand like Prompto burnt him right through his t-shirt.

“We’re heading out straight after breakfast,” Gladio says, “Hopefully we won't have to fight anything until this thing resolves itself.”

-

Prompto doesn’t know the last time they went a whole day without fighting so it really comes as no surprise when they end up in the thick of it only an hour after setting out from the haven.

When he and Noct had accessed the armiger immediately after the spell had taken effect it had been enough to test they had magic still and for some reason they’d just assumed they had the exact same magic as they always did.

What actually seems to be the case, however, is that their bodies remember exactly what kind of magic they’ve always had even if the people currently driving don’t have the capacity to control it.

Prompto tries to keep his distance, more carefully than ever because he’ll be damned if Noct’s body gets injured while he’s the one steering it.

But Prompto literally hears his own voice says “what the fuck” then fires his gun at a killer wasp headed right for Gladio and suddenly stops existing. Or something. Temporarily. Because he does exist again, in a blink of an eye but he’s in mid air, crashing down on top of one of the wasps and if he was actually Noct he’d just switch out for a polearm and spear it through it’s weird, gross body but he’s not so all Prompto can manage is to cry out and curl in on himself to brace for his inevitable collision with the ground.

So much for not hurting Noct’s body, he thinks, as searing pain blisters across his arm. Broken, more than likely.

“I can’t warp,” Noct screams, “Somebody get to Prompto.”

There’s a crunch and some of the buzzing around him dies but it’s replaced quickly, the same sickening thwick, thwick, thwick of wings.

Blind hope makes him raise the gun again aiming it just anywhere away from the fight and his friends and anything that might make this worse. Just making sure to aim close to the ground.

-

“I hate warping,” Prompto says miserably.

His arm is fine, fixed up quick with an elixir but the embarrassment still has a firm hold on him.

“I hate not warping,” Noct says.

They’re alone in the tent, Prompto sulking and Noct refusing to leave his side for some reason.

“Maybe they should kiss,” Gladio’s voice drifts into them, “That’s a thing right - a kiss to break a spell?”

“It didn’t work when Noct got stuck as a frog,” Prompto yells out to him, dragging the back of his hand over his mouth as he remembers the somehow sticky and slick feel of Noct’s little head against his lips.

Noctis snorts, absently kneading one of his biceps.

“Did you get hurt?”

Noct shakes his head.

“What is the point of having biceps like this if you can’t swing a greatsword?” Noct mumbles.

Prompto blinks, takes in his own arms that he’d thought were almost too thin now.

“Biceps like what?” Prompto asks.

Noct startles and because it’s Prompto’s face he goes red all across his cheeks right up to the tips of his ears.

“Maybe they should kiss,” Gladio says again and Prompto laughs along with him this time even though Noctis doesn’t.

“Maybe we should,” Noct mutters. 

He squeezes his eyes shut tight, like something's causing him pain. Any effort to ask him what’s wrong on Prompto’s part, however, is undermined when Noct’s hands clumsily reach for his face, smacking him on the nose before getting a sure grip on his jaw.

“What are you doing?”

“Shut up,” Noct says, “I can’t, like, look at or hear me if we’re gonna do this.” He takes in a sharp breath then mutters, “This is not how the first time should have gone.”

“First what -”

Prompto almost over balances and knocks Noct over when he tugs him forward and seals their mouths together.

Prompto’s still in Noct’s body when it’s over, but it’s hard to be upset about pretty much anything right now. 

[modern-inheritance]

Modern Inheritance: Reunion (Complete)

(A/N: Here's the entire fic for the reunion between Arya and Glenwing in Ellesméra. There's additional A/N stuff on the original posts but y'all can find them if you'd like to.)

~~~~

The bustle of activity and near constant rush of people passed by in a blur. Arya let the crowd flow around her, sinking away from the main crush. She settled a few paces behind her mother where the queen was conversing with Däthedr, silent and watchful as she always had been. 

She was glad that Saphira and Eragon took most, if not all, the attention away from her. After that whirlwind of political and personal business, Arya didn’t feel much like talking to anyone. Such situations always put her on edge, and after so long away the combat liaison was finding it increasingly difficult to hold her tongue and remain the polite and proper diplomat she pretended to be in the pines.

So instead of mingling, Arya settled into an ingrained At Ease stance and began watching the gathered elves. Well, not as much the elves. Brom was her main target. The man had been all but forgotten in the rush, just as he had planned, and he sat at a table nursing a tankard of faelnirv. Yes, an entire tankard. To himself. Because that would end well. As the hour went on Arya contemplated asking her mentor for his shortsword and rifle. There’d be hell to pay if Oromis had to come down early to corral his former student yet again.  

Oromis. Arya suppressed a wince; facing him was just as daunting as facing her mother. He wouldn’t have left the world unwatched while the queen wallowed in her self pity. He and Glaedr had to have know about Eragon, Saphira, Brom. Their madcap running around the Empire. Farthen Dûr.

And he would know about Arya. And Gil’ead. She hoped he hadn’t seen too much of that. 

For a split second Arya smelled wet concrete and tasted copper and iron. The lilting music and bubbly voices smothered down to a low drone, a buzz that dug into her ear as the suddenly harsh light flickered. 

Behind her back she felt her hands involuntarily snap into white knuckled fists, nails digging deep into her palms. Her wrists burned, fingers tingling with sharp pins and needles as the wet fire encircled the ruined skin and rusted steel bit in deep–

It took a breath, a blink. A shaking thumb subtly run over the dark swathe of scar tissue under the cuff of her combat jacket sleeve. Feeling the half rumpled and half silky repairs to her body. 

The world snapped back into focus in time for Arya to mumble a returned greeting as another elf brushed past. She bit her tongue for real this time. ‘Damn recall.’

The night dragged on, and while the rest of Ellesméra whirled and danced Arya could not help but feel rooted in place, stationary in both time and movement. It felt…wrong. She was no stranger to solitude, that was certain, but for some reason standing there, alone despite the sea of people, felt off. 

The hollow feeling in her chest intensified. Ellesméra felt leagues bigger without them there.

Her bitter musings were interrupted by a violent yank on her arm. 

Everything in her body snapped taut as Arya whirled, letting the attacker’s motion turn her as she brought up both fists. The momentum carried her raising arm up to lock against the inner elbow of the man that was now grabbing at her shoulders, ready to throw him off and slam him in the jaw with her free palm. He had both shoulders now, fingers tightening, one hand impossibly hard and cold–

Golden eyes caught her movements, freezing her in place. The entire world dropped away.

Arya couldn’t breathe. The dead man held her at arms length, his brow furrowed and silver hair still settling around his face from where it had escaped his ponytail. His eyes, they had always seen past whatever she said and found what she meant to say, searched her face with the intensity of a hunting dragon. 

He had looked at her like that before, though not quite so intently. Every time she did something so remarkably stupid, like throw an artillery shell back over the trench wall, curl around a grenade to absorb its destruction into her wards, stuck her hand in a Broddring cannon, or, the worst offense of all, go without sleep in favor of double watch shifts and nights disappeared without a word beside their other companion. Always looking out for her. For them. 

The last time she had seen his face it was planted in the dirt, blood pooling and trickling towards open golden eyes as they stared unseeing into the darkness, before the swarm of Urgals had blocked her view.

And now he was looking at her, bright, alert, and with so much fear and disbelief and hope and who the hell knows what else because Glenwing of House Svanran, healer and medic and best friend and dead man walking, was holding her by the shoulders and trying just as desperately as she to figure out if the person in front of him was really, truly alive. 

“...Glen?” Arya half choked, the last air in her lungs used to voice her disbelief. She could barely hear it over the noise around them.

At her uttering of his name Glenwing suddenly seized her face in his hands and let out a cracked laugh. Tears spilled from his eyes as he half cried, half laughed, “Spirits, it is you!” 

And his arms were pulling her in and around her and hugging impossibly tight. 

Arya didn’t hesitate, hugging him back fiercely and holding on, unwilling to let go in case he too slipped away like the other memories. Something snapped inside her chest and in her throat as she let out a broken laugh of her own. “You’re alive! You’re alive!” 

They stayed like that for what felt like ages, relief flowing off of them like a waterfall with tears of joy and disbelief. They weren’t alone anymore. 

It must have been a full minute before the world around them became important again, and Arya reluctantly pulled back. “We should,” She broke off and wiped her eyes, cleared her throat before speaking again without the tremor in her voice. “We should probably go….” 

“Good call.” 

With a small gesture Arya caught her mother’s eye. When the queen inclined her head slightly the two reunited elves snapped their heels together and bowed, knocking their right knuckles to their left collarbones in acknowledgement before all but bolting to the edge of the crowded grove. Here, at least, it was quiet but for a low murmur of the gathered people and a soft thread of the music through the trees. No one would be looking out to the forest, not with something as amazing as Eragon and Saphira at the center of attention, and here Arya and Glenwing would have a modicum of privacy to talk.

It was Arya’s turn to take Glen by the shoulders, and she shook her head with another chuckle past the lump in her throat. “You fucking bastard.” They shared a laugh again. “You absolute bastard. I saw you die. And I never thought….”

“You’re complaining about me?” Glenwing beamed, wiping away tears with his right hand. “All those times I told you not to go running off and get yourself killed, and then I figure that you’ve gone and finally done it.” 

“Hey, I was doing my job!”

“You always say that.” 

“I actually was this time!”

After a few moments of excited chatter, Arya felt cold seeping back into the warm relief that seeing Glenwing had brought. Already knowing the answer, she looked out to the dark pines that hid from the celebration’s light. “Hey, I uh…” She blinked, cleared her throat as best she could past the returning lump. “I take it…you’re my only surprise tonight, huh?” When Glen shifted uneasily, Arya felt a pang of regret at her phrasing and shot him a weak grin. “Not that you’re underappreciated or any–”

Glenwing’s jaw tightened, and for a moment Arya saw his throat convulse as he swallowed. His voice was steady, though, when he gently, grimly, replied, “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. Didn’t say anything for a long, painful minute. “I couldn’t have ever asked for either of you to survive that. Couldn’t even think, imagine, hope, whatever.” Arya waved a hand vaguely, unable to put her feelings into words. “But, shit, Glen. We’ve done so much dangerous, wild–”

“Insane?” That grin was back, tinged with sadness but filled with a familiar wild undertone that everyone in their little fyrn breoal held. 

“Insane!” Arya added with a laugh. “Everything we’ve done and everything we shouldn’t have survived…. I’m just happy you made it out. That we made it out. And look! We did it, we found them!” She pointed towards Saphira’s glittering form in the midst of the crowd that felt so far away. “Let’s just…let’s celebrate that right now. Celebrate him. Shit, can you imagine the ruckus he’d make? We did it! We finally did it.” She couldn’t hide the tangle of elation and relief that broke through the pain. This is what they had all been fighting for, together, for decades. Fäolin would want them to have that, to feel the joy for him.

A commotion drew their attention. Elves were returning from the cookfires, arms laden with dishes and bowls and platters. The sight made both the medic and the combat liaison stiffen somewhat, knowing that their brief time to reacquaint themselves was drawing to a quick end. 

Arya let out a short huff and drew herself up, steeling herself for the rabble again. “Alright. Come on.” Glen grinned when she slapped his arm and seized his face with both hands, squeezing his cheeks. “Have to make sure you’re not some hallucination. Let’s go drink. We’re here. We’re safe.” She slid her hands to his shoulders, began drawing them down his arms in preparation to drag him off to meet the biggest pair of silver linings in history. “We’re in one…”

She trailed off as her right hand slipped down his left arm and stopped short at the bicep. That…that wasn’t….

“Piece?” Words stuck in her throat at the sound of the wry tone in Glen’s voice. He thought he was hiding the ache under that twisted tilt of his lips as her eyes snapped up to his. “Yeah…about that.”

“...Glen, what–”

“Later. I promise.” Without waiting for her protests, Glen slid an arm around his lost commander's shoulders and began walking back to the tables. "Celebrate, right? Introduce me to these two first. Then we drink."

~~~

The door creaked as it slid open, sticking at that same spot as it always had. Arya purposefully kept her eyes down as she closed it, avoiding looking towards her mother where she stood still half stunned outside. Just as she had told the queen, she really wasn’t ready to forgive her, not now. If she met her mother’s gaze there was bound to be a war between exploding at her in buried rage or breaking down after the many emotional hills and valleys of the day.

She made it two steps into the flat, pack already sliding off her arms, when she froze. 

Glen blinked at her from where he was lounging on the couch, just as surprised as she was. 

They stared at each other for a long moment. 

“I uh…” Arya tilted her head slightly. “Wow. Um. I forgot you were alive. And that you’d probably be here.”

The medic blinked again, bewildered, and burst out laughing. “You what?!” 

“It’s been a really, really long day!” Arya threw her pack at him, ignoring the yelp of protest, and dropped onto the opposite end of the couch. 

Glen moved the bag to the floor as his lost commander disentangled herself from her rifle strap, feeling her eyes on him as he leaned back. He wouldn’t admit it, but he too had forgotten that she likely would come back to the flat instead of her long disused room at Tialdarí Hall. He was drained from the night of food and music and emotion, and had trudged home and changed into sleep clothes as soon as he entered, completely oblivious to the possibility of intrusion. 

The loose tanktop, standard issue to Varden soldiers in warm climates, left the metal of his bionic prosthetic on full display, the plating glinting dully in the low werelight. 

They sat in silence for what had to be half an hour, recuperating. Glen made no move to cover the evidence of his missing limb. A niggling feeling in the back of his mind urged him to do so, whispering that she didn’t need guilt on top of everything else. He shushed it, reminded it that he knew that she wasn’t the reason he was down an arm. 

‘But does she know that?’

“...What happened?” Glen rolled his head to look over at Arya, her voice quiet and softer than he remembered she could be. He had tried to lock in the memories of them all together during happy times, wild times, not the times where they had to quietly ask each other if they could keep fighting. “I didn’t…didn’t see where you got hit. I thought it was the chest.”

Glenwing lifted his left arm, the servos drawing power from the precious gems embedded on the insides of the plates whirring almost imperceptibly in the silence. He turned the wrist, tilted the forearm, bent the elbow. Stared at it. “Almost. One went through the bone just above my elbow. Another one got me in the hip.” With two fingers he tapped where the second bullet had entered. “Balan threw me when he got hit and I got knocked out.” 

He inhaled through his nose and bit back a sigh. He could smell pinesmoke again, pungent and heavy. “I think…everything was over when I came around the first time. There was fire but the Urgals were gone. I was cognizant enough to realize I was bleeding out and used the bloodstopper spell to tie off the artery and veins in my arm but…” The fingers made a pleasing series of clicks as he curled them into a fist. “I passed out again. And it was a good bit before I was aware of anything after that.” 

The elves in Vandral, the closest outpost to the edge of Du Weldenvarden where the ambush had occurred, had filled him in as best they could. How they found him half crawling, half dragging himself along the forest floor on their morning patrol. Fäolin’s cold body tied to his own by belts looped across his chest and secured under the dead elf’s arms. The remains of his left arm at and below his now pulverized, shredded elbow hanging on by mutilated muscle. The unmoving fingers white and purple and dusky from lack of blood. The burns on his chest, forearms, knees, thighs, from dragging himself and his long dead brother-in-war and remaining best friend through ashes and embers during the night.

The way he begged them to save Fäolin. Begged them to find her. 

Waking up, his burns healed. His arm–

Pain at his metal wrist ricocheted up to his shoulder. Brought him back.

Glenwing forced the metallic fingers open. “I…I tried to save him.” He dropped both hands to rest limp in his lap, Rhunön’s masterpiece relaying his movements perfectly through metal and crystal. “He was gone before he even hit the ground.”

“I know.” When he looked over Arya was staring past him. “I saw it.” After a moment her eyes cleared, and locked back on him. “Your arm….”

“Bloodstopper worked a little too well, I’m afraid.” He forced a smile. He could still smell the burning pines, but it was fading. Instead it was slowly being replaced by the familiar scent of the worn leather additions on Arya’s combat jacket, gun oil, sharp pine sap and an undertone of gunpowder. It smelled like home, like the Varden, like Arya and Fäolin and decades of companionship and friends. It smelled like safety in their little group. “Rhunön built this for me, though. It works better than the old one!”

Arya shook her head, a touch of a grin on her lips. “I’m sure. She’s outdone herself.” 

“How about you?” Glen didn’t have to know her for over five decades to notice the way Arya changed at the question. Her arms pulled in, the rifle settled across her lap. “What happened to land you with Eragon, Saphira, and Brom of all people?”

Instead of answering him Arya yawned. That was real, he wouldn’t deny that, but she was all too eager to postpone whatever answers she had. “Tell you what,” She stretched and rubbed the back of her neck, massaging a kink out of the muscle that connected to her shoulder. “That’s a story for later. Right now I’m about to pass out on this couch if I don’t get to sleep for a few hours.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Glen’s voice was lighthearted, but they both could hear the warning under the words. It was clear as day, a promise made decades ago. Don’t hide wounds from your fyrn breoal. Head, heart or body, commander, medic or sniper, the only way to stay alive and keep the others safe was to share. “I’m sure it’s a hell of a story.”

Arya waved at him over her shoulder, already halfway down the hall to the room she had shared with her mate. “Yeah. It’s a real doozy. Goodnight, Glen. You still alive bastard.”

“Goodnight, Arya. Resurrected prodigal wild child.”

She blew a raspberry at him as she closed the door.

Glenwing sat back on the couch, the grin fading. His eyes fell on her discarded pack, stripped of weapons and bedroll, sitting at his feet.

The lock on the strap still accepted his thumbprint. It took only a few moments to find what he sought, buried under a mess kit and a pair of socks stuffed in a worn knit beanie she had acquired nearly twenty years ago from a Surdan merchant. A thick file, stuffed with pictures haphazardly sticking out at odd angles, sticky notes and scratched out shorthand. A scattering of numbers and letters, followed by a bold ‘6’ indicated it was the sixth such file in the series, a collection of war wounds and physical exams and the occasional psych eval that never really counted due to the elvish mind being alien enough to circumvent any human or dwarf made test.

Glen pulled it out and brushed his fingers along the tabs till he found one marked a little over two months ago. He didn’t open it, just let his fingertips linger as he mulled over revealing the contents. 

No. 

She would tell him. 

He left the file on the coffee table. 

~~~

It hadn’t escaped him that she had left her combat jacket on that night. Or that she was wearing it when she came out the next morning. Or the day after that. Or the next six mornings. 

They portioned out their days. Arya would spend the morning drafting reports and debriefs, filling out paperwork to reverse her apparent death and half begrudgingly taking on Brom’s share of more mundane documents as he joined Eragon and Saphira at Oromis and Glaedr’s lessons. They split the evenings, Arya going sometimes to guide Eragon and Saphira around Ellesméra or attempting to mend her fragile relationship with her mother. Other nights she joined Glen for dinner and spent the night remembering the days they spent crawling in trenches and infiltrating camps, Fäolin perched above them in his little nest.

Afternoons, though, were for wandering the pines together, walking aimlessly and just talking. Glen told her about the last months, his recovery and the process of fitting, building and bonding with his new arm. The struggles and the joys of connecting the nerves without further surgery, the excited yelling that earned him a pair of tongs to the face when he finally picked up a mug without shattering it or throwing it into his own teeth. 

The three months he spent without leaving Rhunön’s shop. He didn’t tell her it was because he couldn’t find the courage to face the Queen. 

In turn she told him the entire story of Eragon and Saphira, everything the two had shared and every bit of information Brom would reveal about his and their lives in the village of Carvahall. The Raz’zac, the disastrous first flight, Brom’s near death experience, the young son of Morzan and his surprising allegiance. Glen could tell she glossed over the madcap escape from Gil’ead, their eventual return to the Varden getting a similar treatment along with the post battle recovery under Farthen Dûr. 

He didn’t press for a time. But eventually, he knew he had to.

It was eight days after their impromptu reunion, meandering alone past one of the solitary beech trees that some elf had planted and warded years ago with leaves near dripping with the winking lights of bioluminescent moths, when he finally tried to break through. 

“You know you can take that off, right?” Glen teased, plucking a wrinkled fold on the arm of Arya’s combat jacket. “You’re gonna get more looks than usual if you keep wearing it with those cargos.”

Arya looked down with a frown. “Hey! I think it looks good with these! Green and tan go good together, right?” She had never been much for fashion, or even being all that presentable beyond the occasional inspection back during basic or black tie events for the Varden. At those, all it took was a black dress to get whoever dragged her along off her back, even if she insisted on wearing combat boots with it. 

For a moment she remembered, with some fondness, the first time Fäolin had been forced to join her at a fundraiser in Surda. Teasing him about his slicked back hair, chucking him under the chin to get at the bowtie that was damn near choking him over the starched collar of his borrowed suit. His laugh when she asked him where he had put the backup pistol, her own when he subtly touched the grip of the one strapped to her leg under the dress. “You’re my backup pistol, remember?”

Then it was gone again.

Shaking his head as if his commander were a lost cause, Glenwing peered up from under his brows at the dappled sunlight filtering through the heavy needles above. “Come on. What are you hiding under there?”

“Nothing.” 

The medic closed his eyes with a deep inhale and soft sigh at the deadpan tone, the sharp hint of warning contained in the single word. So it would be like that.

He stopped walking. “Arya.”

“What?” Her momentum had carried her three paces beyond, so she had to stop and turn to him. Her fists were jammed in the pockets of the combat jacket.

“We don’t lie to each other.” He fixed her with that look. The medic look. The look that said ‘I am here to help and if you don’t let me there will be a very difficult road ahead.’ A look that he hadn’t given her for years, decades. 

His heart sank when she cut her eyes away from him. “I don’t…” Arya broke off and rubbed the back of her neck again, fingers digging in roughly. “There’s too much to do. We can worry about it later.”

“You finished the paperwork this morning.” Green eyes slid closed in a quiet, nonverbal curse for telling him that earlier. “You– we –were relieved from guarding Eragon and Saphira days ago, and we won’t be called to that again until they leave. Please.” Movement caught his attention. ���Your hands have been shaking since you got back.”

Arya looked down. The tremors had been increasing in frequency since Tarnag. The moments of recall around her wrists always followed their appearance. 

“Arya, you know that I can’t break my oath to you. I can only help you if you allow me. I can’t tell anyone unless you tell me to.” Careful that his approach was seen well before he reached out, Glen touched his commander’s shoulder gently. “I don’t want you to do this alone. I didn’t. I couldn’t.”

And still, she refused to look at him. “You don’t need this on top of everything else.”

“Cut the bullshit.” That got her attention. Glen swore only half as much as the rest of their little squad, and when he did it was usually cause for alarm. No one wanted the man holding their bleeding guts in suddenly swearing out of nowhere. “You’re scared. I understand. And I’m here to help you.”

The accusation made Arya let out a short bark of laughter. At Glen’s raised eyebrow, she merely shook her head, half a twisted grin on her lips. “Ah, Glen. I’m not scared. Nothing really scares me anymore.” Again she let out a short laugh, squinting up into the needles above much like he had and put her hands on her hips. 

He really didn’t expect her explanation. 

“I’ve puked on a shade’s shoes before and lived through the consequences. And I did it again, too. Twice.”

Glenwing stared, bewildered. It took him some seconds to find his words. “...I…I don’t know if you’re joking with me, or if this is your way of saying you’re going to talk about it, or–”

“Oh, I one hundred percent puked on Durza shoes multiple times. That’s one of the things that I like to remember about all that.” Arya was smiling broadly. It didn’t reach her eyes. “If you really want to know,” The smile fell. “I’ll tell you. But later.”

“No.” 

“Glen–”

“I have the file. You know I do.”

Arya closed her eyes in surrender. The file had been sitting on the table for days now, a clear sign to her that he was waiting for her consent to begin the process of unraveling the last nine months. “Yeah.” She inhaled. Smelled wet concrete and tasted copper and iron. Released the breath with a rough sigh. “Okay. Tonight.”

“Tonight.” 

~~~

Glenwing was sitting on the couch with tea already made, file sitting undisturbed on the coffee table, when the door slid open and closed. Relief seeped into his limbs, feeling cold on his left and warm on his right. He hadn't been entirely convinced she was going to show up.

He looked up when she didn’t immediately sit beside him. Arya stood in front of the low table, shoulders tight and fists again firmly shoved in the front pockets of her combat jacket. Every line of her body reflected tension, but her dark eyes glinted with steel when he met her gaze. 

“You sure you wanna do this?” Arya motioned to the file with her chin, sharp and jerky. “It’s a lot less…” She paused, searching for the right word. “Brutal. If you read it from there.”

Glen nodded. He did his best to sound gentle but firm. “I need to hear it from you.” 

Her jaw clenched. “...I don’t know how much I can tell you.”

“Whatever you can. Whatever you want to.” The medic patted the cushion next to him. “We’ll stop whenever you want.” She waited a few more moments. Then, with stiff steps, Arya sat a few feet down the couch. “Take all the time you need.” 

Arya braced her elbows on her knees and leaned over, studying the moss that made up part of the floor of their flat. “I’m not…I’m not ashamed of what happened there.” A shiny backed beetle meandered onto the edge of her boot. She reached down and let it crawl onto her finger, lifted it to examine the iridescence of its carapace. “Hell, I’m proud of what I endured. I don’t know why it's so hard to talk about it like this.” She grinned as the little creature fluttered its hidden wings, the thin sheaves dark in contrast to the elytra’s color. “I’ve joked about it plenty.” 

Glen leaned back. He had his notepad in his hands, rumpled and scuffed and one of the corners charred. “You’ve always preferred deflecting whenever something’s bothering you.”

With a gentle puff of air, Arya encouraged the glittering insect to take flight. They both watched it go, floating to the window where it escaped through the barely open latch. “...Yeah.”

She took a deep breath then, resumed her previous position, and rubbed the flats of her palms together. “I guess I should start from the beginning. 

“That night we were ambushed, when you lost your arm and Fäolin was killed, Durza captured me after I teleported Saphira’s egg.” Again the woman focused her eyes on the ground, watching the miniscule hairs of the moss waver in the near imperceptible movements of air created by the cracked window, her breath, and Glenwing’s breath. Connecting currents that linked everything in the room. “I was in and out, but when I woke up fully I was in a cell under Gil’ead’s keep, their maximum security wing. 

“There were shackles on my wrists. They weren’t connected to anything, so when Durza came in I obviously tried to take his face off.” Half a smirk touched her lips, a tone of bitter pride coloring her words. “So he locked the shackles to the wall. Then I tried to headbutt him when he got too close. So he put me in a chair and locked me to that.”

The woman tilted her head slightly, brow knitted in a hint of confusion. Her braid slid over her shoulder to hang free. “He just…talked to me that time. Sat across from me and told me who he was, gloated about the spells he made to break our wards with just bullets and Urgals at his disposal.” To Glen’s surprise, Arya had an almost wistful, crooked grin when she looked over at him. “You know what he did next?” 

Despite her previous assertion that nothing could really scare her, Glen saw, buried beneath the convoluted and contorted emotions in his friend’s eyes, a glimmer of fear. He shook his head, afraid to break whatever courage was driving her to speak. 

“He asked me, point blank, if I would submit. Asked if I would surrender then and there, knowing the spells he had created, the potential he had, knowing what he was. He told me what awaited me if I did. I would be taken to Urû’baen immediately and presented to Galbatorix. He would receive the information I had to give, take more if he wanted, and then I would be released into his service. I’d swear oaths to him and become his new Forsworn, and used however he saw fit to bring down the Varden, Surda and Du Weldenvarden.” She let out a soft scoff, that pained look still twisting her lips. “I told him ‘no.’ Only word I said to him besides ‘bite me, bitch’ and ‘fuck you’ a few times.” She laughed again, and it sounded desperate, near panicked at the edges. “He just smiled, that fucking smile, and said ‘good.’”

Her own smile gone, Arya dragged a hand down her face, skin going pale as she remembered. “He spent…I don’t know how long. I’ve got no sense of time anymore. He spent what had to be hours just…just telling me what he could do to me. What he would do to me. He paced around and around that stupid fucking chair, grabbed my neck from behind and whispered in my ear the experiments he wanted to try.” 

A shudder passed from the back of her skull to the base of her spine. Arya did her best to focus on the swaths of moss between her boots. Pincushion moss. A bryophyte. They grew it there because it was soft and stayed that way even when the weather turned dry for weeks at a time. 

She could feel his hand gripping the base of her braid, head yanked back against the metal edge of the chair. The way he cupped her throat, thumb pressing just under the joint of her jaw and stroking her skin as she did her best to appear nonchalant. Simply met his gleeful gaze with cold fire in her eyes. She would not look away. 

The elf took a shuddering breath and untangled her fingers from where she had been clenching them together hard enough to leave bruises. “And then…he did. He did all of it and more.” She blinked, willed the floor to return to its green carpet rather than the grey creeping in. “And I fought it. I fought whenever I could. He stopped using the shackles in the cell because my wrists were shredded and I wouldn’t stop fighting them. I don’t know how long it was till I…” Her words caught in her throat. She blinked again. Why was this what made her choke up? “Till I couldn’t fight anymore. 

“He dosed me with Skilna each day, tried to wear me down.” Her lungs hurt at the memory. The time that he had sat on her cot, one leg daintily crossed over the other while he let the poison run its course longer than before. Watched her, that fucking smile plastered on his face, the antidote held in his lap, as she coughed up blood until she couldn’t anymore, as she writhed against the feeling of her bones shattered like crystal glass and the overwhelming, all encompassing fever that turned her veins to molten lead. 

He had wanted her to ask for it. To beg for the antidote. 

She crawled over, every movement triggering more liquid glass to explode within her cells. Grabbed his leg. Saw that triumphant, gleeful grin in the haze above. 

With her last ounce of strength she slipped a finger between his leg and his high, polished boots and deposited a mouthful of blood into the space.

Her gurgling laughter at his disgust made her smile briefly, lost when the noise ended abruptly with a crack and the sound of a tightly gripped, torn throat struggling to breathe. Still. The broken jaw and flail chest had been worth it. And she didn’t even have to ask for the antidote.

“He uh…” Arya cleared her throat, tasted the same blood as he dragged her out of the cell again, fury evident in each step. “He had to change it. To a longer form. One he could trigger at will. I was apparently getting some sort of tolerance.” She could see the pen moving from the corner of her eye. “He couldn’t always be there. Something about reporting to Galbatorix. He told the guards to keep his…his work, going while he was away. Only rule was no blows to the head. Needed the information in my mind unscrambled.”

Glenwing’s pen slowed. He didn’t want to ask the question. He knew she could feel his eyes on her, the way she shifted and raised her laced together hands to her lips. The way she tensed when he put the pen down and leaned toward her to touch two fingers to her forearm. “Arya….”

She refused to look at him. “They didn’t.” Her jaw was clenched. “They…they tried.” One of her hands twitched before the other clamped down on it. She blinked. “One of them…one of them must’ve found some old book somewhere…talked about elf customs or something.” Slowly Glen saw her entire body go tense, muscles locked and coiled to their limit. The first mumbled words of her next admission were lost in the quiet breath that delivered them.  

“...tried to notch my ear.” 

Glen’s blood went cold. The practice was ancient, heralding back to the bonding of the dragons and elves and the…peculiar…additions the dragon’s blood had on elves' practices of coupling. While a gentle bite on the ear of a mate was considered a pact of love, of devotion…a notch was a symbol of bitter solitude. Any elf with a notched ear was considered almost untouchable when it came to love, mating, partnership, acceptance. They were given only for horrific deeds, the slaughter of children, taking an unwilling mate, murder of a partner, and, above all else, for the betrayal of the entire elven race. 

If Durza had learned of this from his men he would have carried it out as the ultimate humiliation, and bound the mark to her body so that no healing could touch the wound. 

It took every ounce of Glenwing’s self control to not seize his best friend’s face and turn her to him, looking for the telltale rift. Instead, he steadied his voice as best he could and managed an only slightly enraged, “They tried?”

“They didn’t manage it.” The words were hollow, the memory of just how close she came to being marked still bouncing in her skull. Unlike the others, this one was…hazy. She could feel the panic in her chest and the many hands forcing her to the ground as she struggled to lift her broken body. They wanted revenge for the men she had…disposed of…after their attempts to take advantage of her weakened state. The cold, cold metal of a set of wire cutters sliding against the side of her head and behind her right ear. 

Then just…relief. Gratitude? And spending time curled under the cot, pressed as tightly against the wall as she could manage until the pale hand dragged her out for another span of agony after a longer than normal gap. 

For some reason the sense of relief sparked warmth that soothed the growing lump in her throat. She pressed her fingers into the spaces between her knuckles, grounded herself in the discomfort as she found sore tendons and protesting connective bands. “Eragon was captured some time after that. I don’t know how long. Adrenaline and pain tablets kept me on my feet long enough to get out with them. Eragon, Saphira and Brom healed what they could and got me awake. The rest you already know.”

Glen picked up his pen again and rolled it between his fingers. “Poison?” He had masked the tremor in his tone, but the rage wasn’t going to fade quite so easy. He wouldn’t press, not now at least. This was enough for one night.

“Right.” Gil’ead retreating from her mind, Arya straightened somewhat and clasped her knees with hands now blooming with fingertip shaped bruises. “Durza activated it. We got through the Hadarac before it caused problems. I might have…had to use the dream state to survive it.” She winced, fully expecting a lecture. 

Instead, Glenwing chewed the end of his pen. “You got out of it.” It was a statement of fact, laced with a hint of assurance that he wasn’t angry. He had taught her how to trigger the dream state for emergencies, and poison was certainly on the qualifying list.

“After a bunch of Tunivor’s Nectar…yeah.” Arya blinked, suddenly remembering another visitor during her half-addled state in Tronjheim’s hospital. “And the Wise One gave me something to pull me out.”

Glen stopped his absentminded chewing, pen dangling from his lips as he shot his commander a look of shock. “She’s back?” The way the stylus bobbed with his words made him look almost comically like Brom with his pipe. 

“Werecat and all.” Arya frowned. “Didn’t I say she’s the one that fixed Eragon’s back?”

“You kind of ignored the recovery period.” 

“Ah.” 

The woman’s bearing had shifted again. Glen saw more anxiety than before, less tension in her limbs as she cut her gaze away again and picked a loose thread by her knee. “Speaking of the recovery period…” 

“I broke the Star Sapphire, injected myself with four full doses of adrenaline to try and stop Eragon’s back from bleeding, overdosed, had several cardiac events, and Vilks put me on strict orders and told me I’d die if I didn’t follow them.” 

‘Ah’ indeed. No wonder she looked nervous. There was nothing that could trigger fear in a lifelong, diehard soldier with nothing else but their deployment than the anger of a very exasperated medic with the power to put them on an indefinite hold.

“You what?!”

Arya had already bolted off the couch, skittering past the coffee table. “Look, I know you’re upset with me for pulling a stunt like that again–”

“FOUR?!” 

She was already down the hall, nearly slingshotting past her room when she grabbed the doorframe. “Just…read the file, Vilks took good notes, I’ll change, just…yeah!”

Torn between fuming and alarmed, Glen grabbed for the file on the coffee table. He swore when his knuckles impacted the side of the wood, the metal leaving a decent dent. Making a mental note to speak to Rhunön about his continued issues of emotional override, he snatched up the packet with his right hand and flipped it open to the tab at the very back.

Vilks’ handwriting still kept its tight scrawl in his advanced age, and after so many years the doctor had perfected the art of short, sweet and to the point in his notes. Possible seizures. Fluid in the lungs, intubation for two hours, O2 mask for six after. Five VTach events before AED applied, unknown number post. Repeated attempts to leave bed before fully aware. Restrained for aprox 10 minutes before reminded of patient history. Energy extremely depleted, side effects of poisoning, imprisonment, poor diet, adrenaline overdose and magic overuse. Given orders of NO MAGIC two weeks, consistent bedrest and sleep (unlikely), multivit 2/d two weeks, recheck two weeks. Warned of consequences. 

A quick note at an angle, dated eleven days after the initial list, added ‘Given consequences after discovered participating in rigorous PT. Patient given icepack for forehead contusion and required to replace hospital clipboard at next possible opportunity.’

Despite his frustration, Glen couldn't help the smile that curled the edges of his lips. ‘Of course.’

“If you’re going to chuck that at me, let me get a head start first.” The medic looked up at his commander’s wry request. She had donned a pair of jogging shorts and a loose tshirt, the standard PT gear of Varden recruits in Fathen Dûr. 

Glenwing snapped the file closed. “I wouldn’t warn you if I was going to throw it, especially after reading that. Let’s sit at the table, better light.” Arya shrugged, thumbs hooked in the small pockets of her shorts, and followed him to sit in the dining area where bright werelights hung above their heads. 

They sat together, bathed in light tinged with the greens that dominated their home away from the Varden. Arya, after a moment of hesitation, placed her forearms on the table, palms down.

The medic resisted sucking his teeth, and instead bit the tip of his tongue as he reached out and gently lifted the woman’s left arm. A swath of scar tissue encircled her wrist, creeping up her hand and palm just slightly before diving down and dipping a concave wrap two inches down her forearm. The right side mirrored the same mutilation, both dark and a mottled red mix of soft ridges and silken patches. With a light touch to the back of her hand and a nod of acquiescence, he turned her palm up to reveal her tendons etched at the surface of her skin, as if locked permanently taut. 

“They’re just like that.” Arya broke the silence. A half hearted shrug tilted her wrist, and the flexor tendons jutted out further. “Tissue’s gone. Tendons just kind of…stand out, I guess.”

Glen hummed in acknowledgement, inwardly swearing at the possible damage that lurked beneath her skin. “Do you have any numbness in your hands or fingers?”

“No. The shaking started when we were around Tarnag. It feels like pins and needles sometimes, but it’s not affected my grip or range of motion.” 

Gently manipulating the joints, Glenwing confirmed her words before picking up his pen and scribbling a note down. “And you didn’t heal these…?”

“I like them.” Arya’s eyes were clear when he snapped his gaze up to hers. 

“Arya, they've got nerve damage. In your hands.” 

At that the woman pulled her hand from his grip and crossed her arms, hiding the dark bands from view. “Can you heal the nerve damage without healing the scars?” 

Glen frowned. “Yes, but–”

“Then we do it that way.” She held him in her gaze for a long moment, waiting for him to acquiesce. “This is my way of taking it back, Glen.” And again, she suddenly cut her eyes away with a quiet mumble.

“What?”

“It helps…” He could see her flex her fingers involuntarily under her arms, gnash her teeth at some unseen jolt. She looked like he did when the phantom pain kicked in unexpectedly, a shock that lingered for minutes or hours. “It helps when I have recall. When…when I touch them it’s like….” The woman fumbled for words, distress building. “He never left scars when he gave me hallucinations.” She gripped the table edge with white knuckles, tilting the chair back slightly. “And when I feel the scars I just…I know I’m not there. It helps bring me back sometimes.” 

Sometimes. Not always.

‘Recall.’ That cursed thing. Sensory recall and elvish memory went hand in hand, making the calling up of emotionally charged memories laden with past sensory detail a normal, if not somewhat uncommon, occurrence among their race. Arya’s had always been strong, bringing back physical touch and involving a majority of the senses for most of her moments of involuntary recall. Glen’s near rivaled hers, built up from the years of war and countless moments where PTSD took hold of the accursed skill, if it could even be called that. They both relived their traumas, ricocheting to the past as the world went on around them, seeing but not seeing.

Every time he thought of the ambush, he smelled the smoke, felt the hot ash and cinders embedding in his clothes and his skin. He could taste blood and pine ash, the grit between his red stained teeth and the excruciating wrong that was the needles and the dirt and bark and ash collecting, sticking to the mangled flesh of his ruined arm. He didn’t always see it, and for that he thanked whatever stars watched over him. That was his only escape. Seeing the metal limb that now dominated his left side, a zing of phantom pain that reminded him that the original limb was long gone…it made coming out of the recall easier. Something to remind him that the past was the past.

Glenwing reached out and, with a feather touch of his mechanical hand, reminded his commander to release the creaking wood of the table. He cupped her scarred knuckles, turned her palm to run a cold thumb over the ghost of a hastily healed burn. 

“I’ll do my best.” He promised. 

A rush of air left Arya’s lungs, a relief she didn't quite realize she needed. An acknowledgement of the scars beyond the cursory looks cast her way under Farthen Dûr, the concerned frown Brom gave them every once in a while. Glenwing understood their purpose, in a way that no one else could. “Thanks.”

Satisfied he could mend some of the frayed nerves, Glen turned to examining the smattering of new scars that littered the woman’s arms. Nothing was particularly egregious, and while several of the straight lines that slid down from beneath the woman’s sleeves looked near surgical, Arya simply told him it was ‘healed fully’ and ‘not a problem.’ Again, he didn't push it.

“Is there more?” Glen took a sip of his now cold tea, making a face before reheating it with a quick word. If this was all that needed checking then he could call himself pleasantly surprised given her previous description. 

Arya paused. “There’s a few on my legs but those were…those were healed. He healed them to the surface at least.” She tried to shake the sudden jolt of seeing steel nubs protruding from her shin, the excruciating ripping, tearing, snapping, as the bone split down its length. All that remained were four pale pink spots in a line from the last time that particular method was used. “Eragon and Saphira healed a scrape on my right leg, but they did well. No complaints there.”

“Uh-huh.” Glen tapped the point of his pen at the upper corner of his paper, resisting the urge to chew on the end again. She wasn’t telling him everything. But it was a start. “Is that it?”

“...No.” Arya sighed and pushed back from the table to stand. “I’m not healing these either, okay?” Her voice was muffled as she tugged her shirt up and over her head. She tossed it into the achingly empty chair across from her and stood clad only in her shorts and sports bra. “Make me look badass.” She turned and pulled her braid over her shoulder, gesturing with a jerked thumb at the expanse of her back. 

Glenwing dropped his pen. “Well. Shit."

“Hey!” Arya whirled to him. She seemed genuinely offended. “Come on, Glen! I survived this shit. You know what that took? I’m fuckin’ proud of these, and I’m not healing them for bullshit vanity.” He didn’t answer. Just stood and put his hands on her shoulders. “What are you–”

And pulled her into another hug.

Arya froze. She could feel the cold metal of his left arm holding her around her shoulder blades, a stark contrast to the warmth of his right hand squeezing around her ribs. Someone was touching her back and he wasn’t recoiling, wasn’t probing, wasn’t hurting. She wasn’t struggling, fighting, desperate to run away. An ache that she didn’t even realize had been tied into the muscles along her spine for months suddenly released, bringing with it a rush of relief and a soothing mix of warm where warm was needed and cool where cool was needed. 

“Don’t lie to me.” Glen murmured in her ear, his voice catching. “You tried.”

Arya squeezed her eyes shut. 

The day after Vilks cleared her for magic use. Checking the multitude of scars that covered her back and criss-crossed her skin with burns, cuts, hills and valleys of hypertrophic and concave bands. The visible slide of muscle where the layers above had been carved away. There was space between them, yes. But all she could see was the red, pink and silver of lingering damage made physical and, above all else, undeniable. She looked…she looked almost broken.

She had tried to heal them. And found herself scrabbling, clawing, writhing on the floor of that stupid little bathroom, choking back a scream of unimaginable pain as the nerves in her back exploded in protest. Everything she had endured, condensed and dripped in a steady, maddening flow along each pathway, electric and burning and pain. Once again it was all that existed for her in that moment, an extended second that encompassed months and months of time she could not begin to grasp nor understand the passage of. 

She ripped away from the magic and lay, panting, on that stupid, stupid bathroom floor. Blood steadily streamed from her forehead to the tiles where she had cracked it on the stone, trying to breathe through the lingering aftershocks and remembering the spells that he had used to the same result. Felt, deep in her chest, an interwoven pity and horror for Eragon and the new hell he was beginning to endure. She couldn’t heal herself. And she couldn’t heal him. Magic wouldn't erase these wounds.

Arya reached up and grabbed onto Glenwing, clutched at the loose folds of his shirt under his shoulder blades as if he were her last hope against drowning. “They’re…” She shivered, pressed her forehead to his shoulder. She had decided already, that day back in Tronjheim, that if she couldn’t remove them then she would wear them as a badge of pride. She wasn’t broken. She couldn’t be. They were the proof. “I’m…. I beat them. I beat him.”

Glenwing didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. He knew, and she knew as well. They’d weather it just as they always did, together and steadfast and strong against the push of everyone else. So they had scars. That didn’t mean they were lost, or broken, or could be cast aside as soldiers who had long passed their expiration date. Fifty years, seventy in her case, was a long, long time to fight.  

They’d just have to keep fighting.

They wouldn’t have it any other way.

[l-ecter]

🔪 indie, low activity roleplay blog for Hannibal Lecter based off nbc's Hannibal with movie influences. follows back from @rhaigal

🔪 don't rush with replying, we all have lives so don’t feel stressed that you need to reply this instant. I am generally a slow writer. mainly prefer two / three paragraphs but will adapt to the partner’s length

🔪 willing to roleplay with any fandom. this blog is oc, canon, crossover and duplicate friendly, memes, questions, prompts, random chats all the way!

🔪 please no godmodding and do confirm with me before your muse “attacks” mine so appropriate action will be played out on my part

🔪 don't assume your muse knows Hannibal. being cocky or mean purposefully all the time will result me dropping the thread or ending it with Hannibal simply killing your muse and serving them to his guests, he doesn't give a fuck

🔪 this blog will be dark and weird. I will tag triggers e.g. tw; blood, tw; violence etc. I don’t have triggers (just don’t call my muse daddy pls and tag m.adancy) please do let me know if you have any triggers etc.

🔪 mun and muse are both of legal age. DO NOT interact with me or Hannibal if you’re under age. Age gap threads will have to be plotted in advance, absolutely no under-age age gap!

🔪 no force ship, we ship chemistry but be warned I do love to ship and ship hard

> I don't really ship Hannixgram. this particular ship will have to be discussed

🔪 nsfw and smut material is will be present, you have been warned (e.g. imagery, gifs and written) nsfw tag is #close your eyes; nsfw. I haven’t written smut in a while so for the time being I prefer things to fade into darkness

🔪 I don’t mind if you reblog memes from me as sometimes original links don’t work. no stress, reblog that shit

🔪 if you have mad, random ideas just shoot us a starter or im, honestly you aren’t a bother. I’m always happy to hear new ideas

🔪 here to have a good time so don’t drag us into drama please. send me a knife emoji if you have read these or don't, whatever. if there is something I posted or said please have some decency to come to me but pls don’t give me shit.

Thanks for reading this 🔪🩸

[the-haunted-office]

Okay, here's an explanation of how pain works for Doomsday, even though she's a ghost.

Originally she could not feel any pain. She couldn't feel any pain, pleasure, or any sort of sensation other than some pressure and things like air movements. All of her senses were either severely damaged or entirely destroyed, and for her sense of touch it was almost entirely destroyed. Having no body, she could feel next to nothing.

Until she was cursed.

A mun who is no longer around had their muse reverse the soul bond she had with her living counterpart, Thursday (a detail I can go into later). A side effect of this reversal was that Doomsday would gain back the ability to feel approximately 20% of her senses - including touch, which includes her ability to feel pain and pleasure. Hence why Doomsday is able to feel and react to receiving pain.

As for how she is able to receive pain being a ghost and having the ability to become intangible, it all depends on how the pain is administered, and this is where things can get a bit complicated.

Most of the time it has to do with if she is taken by surprise. A good deal of the time, Doomsday is walking around in a tangible sort of state, meaning you can touch and interact with her and she can interact with her environment. She is choosing to exist in this state. She can also choose to become intangible.

If you take her by surprise, you are likely to land a hit on her and cause her pain. As for causing actual damage? That's not likely unless you attack her with one of her weakness, which was discussed in another post.

Another way to cause her pain is if she actually allows it.

You might ask why she would allow someone to hurt her. Well, this is because - oddly enough - she likes it. It makes her feel alive again. For a long time she couldn't feel anything at all. And then she was cursed and had some sensation returned to her, so now she does a lot of strange things just to feel again. Try not to judge her too much when she asks you to run her over with a car or tase her. :p

Anyway, there you have it! I admit there may be flaws in this logic. I mean hey, we're talking supernatural and paranormal elements here. If you have questions, please do ask them! It helps me build lore and whatnot.

[blizzardrush]

( Hey everyone! Since Sons of Theseus is basically a fic, I wanted to make an author's notes sort of post explaining some of the things going on in it.

Directly under the cut will be a TL;DR so you can get up to speed with my muses' current main verses without reading SoT, though I'd appreciate if you did. Spoiler alert!

Anyway, let's get to it! )

Too Long; Didn't Read:

Bryan: After being trapped in a false reality for over a year, Fury had difficulty grasping if he was actually free of his perfect dream or still stuck. He found Dragunov during the eighth King of Iron Fist Tournament. Due to their shared history, Fury made him his basis of what was real or not. Sergei died during Azazel's rebirth, causing Bryan to rampage across continental Europe, Dragunov's corpse in tow, to the HQ of the Gold Raptors. He witnessed Sergei's resurrection and went with him to the Battle of Yakushima (after all, who was gonna stop him?). He panicked when he perceived Sergei on the brink of death again and intervened in Dragunov's fight with Victor. Sergei was only enacting a ruse, however, and attacked Bryan instead. Their tussle was interrupted by Devil Kazuya. When the dust settled, Bryan realized Dragunov is just as strong as he ever was, and thus knows now for certain that he is in the real world, and it is his for the taking.

Sergei: An attempt to give a graduation gift to his younger sister was hideously misinterpreted, causing him to lose his temper and have a painful coughing fit. He was dispatched to the King of Iron Fist Tournament to represent Russia and defeated Shaheen. Part of the Coliseum collapsed during Azazel's appearance. He was crushed under rubble and killed. At the instant of his death, the Gold Raptors captured a snapshot of his being down to the quantum level and reconstructed him, minus the cancer in his lungs and throat he did not know he had. The Major, leader of the Raptors, sent him to the Battle of Yakushima, where he fought with Victor. He feigned an injury to catch the Raven off-guard, but Bryan "rescued" him before he could follow through. Outraged at the lost opportunity, Dragunov attacked Bryan instead, stabbing him in the thigh. Devil Kazuya brought the entire battle to a fiery halt. Initially despairing over what he thought was a complete failure of his mission, Sergei realized that he had almost killed Fury without much effort. If he could do that fresh from the grave, then his future potential is limitless.

𓆚 | 𓅓

Stuff I Want to Mention:

The thread's title, Sons of Theseus, refers to the Ship of Theseus thought experiment: "is something still the same thing if it has all of its original parts replaced?" Both Bryan and Dragunov go through some hefty changes through the story. Fury gets his entire perception of reality rocked, deeply disturbing him for possibly the first time in his life. Sergei gets it worse -- he is literally rebuilt from the ground up.

There are two songs embedded in SoT: Dead Man's Party by Oingo Boingo, and Silent Running by Gorillaz. Both have lyrics relevant to the story.

Dead Man's Party:

I was hit by something last night in my sleep It's a dead man's party, who could ask for more? Everybody's comin', leave your body at the door Leave your body and soul at the door

Though I mostly used this song to go with the jovial atmosphere of Bryan's dream of Hollywood stardom, in his first post, he is hit by something in his sleep: Dragunov talking. The sheer shock of this is enough to snap him out of it!

Silent Running:

Stop, 'cause you're killing me You brought me back and made me feel free Rowdy waves and your energy You pulled me fragile from the wreckage Well, I got so lost here Machine assisted, I disappear To a dream, you don't wanna hear How I got caught up in nowhere again

This song was a HUGE inspiration for SoT as a whole. These lyrics practically happen. Why?

Because Sons of Theseus is fix-it fic. imo Bryan and Dragunov have a lot of potential. Yeah, I know, I get it, T8 isn't about them. But blizzardrush and unbrydledfury are! With any luck, I gave them a compelling narrative to go along with the canon story.

Speaking of which, the entire thing, like most of my fics, was the result of brainworms. I didn't get T8 right out of the gate, and though I tried to avoid spoilers, I heard that the losers of the KoIF tournament would be killed. Since Bryan and Dragunov are villains, I assumed they would likely be goners. How was I supposed to write them if they were canonically dead? This wasn't the case, of course, but I liked the idea of actually killing one of my muses. Sergei drew the short straw because I was having trouble deciding how his character was developing. Now he has a blank slate! What a lucky guy!

I didn't want his resurrection to be an ass-pull handwaved by oh the Foundation Raptors are ~*~spooOOooky~*~ military mad science, but then I remembered there is precedent for them doing shit like this :^)

Bryan being stuck in a lotus-eater machine was the result of much brainstorming about how to keep a nearly-invincible cyborg subdued for over a year. Turns out it's easy -- you just target the ego. Fun fact: the duration his black box reports was the length of time between that post and the last post I made on unbrydled :')

Finally, there's a blink-and-you'll-miss-it reference Bryan makes to a "thing in Vegas". He's talking about the three-way thread between him, Dragunov, and icecoldwilliams' Nina, in which they're chasing down a lost nuclear bomb before someone sets it off. I love continuity in my RP blogs; I feel like it gives them more weight.

So there you go! That wraps up SoT. Bryan and Dragunov are officially updated and back to regular programming.

Thank you for reading! <3 )