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henryyarden · 9 months

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Tis the Season

Pairing: Iorveth/Vernon Roche

Rating: T

Sumarry:

Vernon Roche and some of his soldiers are celebrating New Year in the town. It's just his luck that he runs into his enemy there as well.

AO3 link

This is the last part of the series (yes, this is a series!) because they actually meet in it! For this to really make sense with all the comments from Vernon's side, you should read the first two in the series (Who do you see from your deathbed? and Sleepless Night) but who I am to tell you what to do? You can freely read just this.

(And pretend like it's not 6th of January and that this was posted on New Year, okay?)

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Vernon was on his leave. In fact, many of them were. During winter, things aren't usually as strict overall. Snowdrifts and frost complicate the unit's functioning, and even the Squirrels aren't as active when their asses are freezing. Soldiers can afford to linger in larger cities, take more time off, and save energy until the cold eases a bit.

But that day was even more significant - it was the holidays. People were more generous and friendlier; in every flea-infested inn, at least a warm soup was served, and street performers were doing everything from theatre and music to bizarre arts that can truly boggle the mind.

Some of the Blue Stripes took the opportunity to return to their families, while others, like Vernon, used the break to feel human again for a few days. They ate well, bathed, discarded their armour, and ventured into the city's whirlwind for some revelry.

The more drunk and boisterous they became, the easier it was for them to overlook Vernon’s gloomy mood; in the end, they pulled him along more out of habit than expecting him to celebrate with them. But he didn't mind. He was content alone, or rather, he preferred being alone than trying to keep up with younger, less weathered soldiers not as marked by the war. No need to lie to himself, he wasn’t getting younger.

By evening, they finally stopped; at a quite crowded inn, where – for everyone’s pleasure – the owners brewed a very good beer special just for the holidays. The smell of roasted meat and spiced ale wafted through the air, calling them in. The tables inside were packed, but at least they sat outside, going inside only for more alcohol when needed.

Vernon was just heading to the bar for another beer when he almost collided with someone else at the door. He stepped aside to let the stranger pass, but as soon as he focused on the person's face, he froze.

He almost didn't recognize him without his iconic scarf. He guessed it was probably intentional. The hood worn like a chaperone conveniently covered the tips of his ears, and most of his scar was hidden in the shadows. No one would recognize him as the person from the wanted posters.

They happened to be so close that he could see how the expression on his face changed - from plain unconcern to surprise to the usual contempt just in one breath. His hand immediately went to the knife's hilt, and Vernon realized that at any moment, their long-standing fight could end.

He would lose. His hand was still not entirely steady, he couldn't remember when he last had a proper sleep, and the beer had already gone to his head.

He had to act. In a split second, Iorveth would drive the knife under his ribs and would be gone before anyone could notice what had happened.

Vernon's mind raced, searching for a way to escape, to reverse this dangerous situation. He moved almost as quickly as Iorveth, just with a slight hesitation that gave his opponent an advantage. Fortunately, Vernon's gesture had one thing at its side. Shock.

He raised his hands with open palms to show he was unarmed. Except for the beer mug - if you can count that as a weapon.

Iorveth hesitated, still holding the knife's hilt, but as long as the knife wasn't stuck in Vernon's body, he considered it a success.

"Can we not?" Vernon asked.

"What?" Iorveth ground between his teeth, and Vernon sighed. He really didn't have the mood for this right now.

"I'm tired, Ior-" he almost said his name out loud in the middle of the tavern. He glanced at the nearest drunks, but they didn't seem to pay attention. "I'm tired. Can we not fight at least tonight?"

Iorveth looked suspicious, but that was okay. He didn't want his trust; he just wanted to quietly drink his beer without having to rush right back to the hospital.

Iorveth moved his head as if struggling with the urge to look back, and Vernon glanced behind him, into the tavern’s second room. Iorveth was definitely not alone. Damn, another reason why he would lose their duel. Vernon's small group was sitting and drinking outside. He could only rely on the innkeeper’s bodyguard to intervene, but by the time he would get here...

Iorveth slowly released the knife's hilt. "Fine. No fighting today," he said, like it left a strange taste on his tongue.

Vernon nodded and offered: "You haven't seen me, I haven't seen you?"

"Deal."

Both took a cautious step aside, still half-turned toward each other - in case either of them planned some trick - and returned to their own groups.

As Vernon retreated to his Blue Stripes, he cast a sidelong glance over his shoulder. Of course, Iorveth would probably disappear immediately, whatever was his reason for even being here. For Vernon, it would be way too easy to wait for the elves along with the city guards, so it could be assumed that Iorveth would retreat. Therefore, even if neither of them had any interest in keeping the agreement, circumstances forced them to be men of their word.

***

The evening passed quickly. In the midst of winter, darkness fell early, and temperatures dropped with dusk, so soon Vernon remained one of the few people who preferred sitting outside the tavern rather than in the crowded, human-warm room where every free space became valuable. He dreaded the moment when he would have to go inside for another jug. Luckily, it was half full, so for now, he contentedly puffed on his pipe and enjoyed a moment of peace and quiet.

"Why aren't you sleeping then?"

"Sweet Melitele!" Vernon chuckled, jumped, and almost fell from his seat. Fortunately, he managed not to spill the beer.

He continued to wheeze and cough for a moment and squinted through tears at the man who seemed to literally materialize from the darkness around him. It wasn't easy to see his face, but Vernon would recognize that voice anywhere. The voice and that chaperone - thanks to their previous encounter.

"What the hell are you doing here? You should have been long gone."

"I should have," Iorveth replied pseudo-nonchalantly but still looked around at the nearest people who might notice them. However, he probably realised – just like Vernon – that it would be a stretch for the nearest drunks to stand, let alone reach them and notice who they were. "You haven't answered me yet, though," Iorveth continued when he turned back to him. "Why aren't you sleeping, if you're so tired you don't want to fight your nemesis?"

"Oh, come on, don't be such a bitch. Can't I just drink my beer in peace?"

"You're making my everyday life a hell, why should I give you peace tonight?" But despite his words, he leaned on the opposite table not looking threatening at all, and something even clinked in his scrip.

Any existing tension began to ease. They exchanged a silent acknowledgment that neither of them wanted a confrontation tonight.

Vernon took a sip of his beer, eyeing Iorveth with a mix of wariness and curiosity. "So, what brings you here? Thought you elves enjoyed solitude and freezing your asses in the woods during these times."

Iorveth's gaze was piercing, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Solitude gets old, and even elves need a change of scenery from time to time. Plus, there's something about the chaos of human celebrations that's oddly intriguing."

Vernon chuckled, not believing a word he said but still taking it. "Yeah, nothing like a bit of chaos to spice things up. Though, I never pegged you for the festive type."

Iorveth smirked. "Don't mistake curiosity for festiveness. I'm just observing."

„Right. Observing. Is that why you are dressed as a poor parody of me?“ Vernon pointed out his hat, and Iorveth immediately tore the chaperone off his head making Vernon laugh. “Come on, it suited you!”

“Fuck you. As if I ever wanted to have anything in common with you.”

For a brief moment, there was silence, and the two men stared at each other, only the noise of the inn and the revelry of the holiday celebrations echoed in the background. Now that Iorveth’s face wasn’t drowning in the shadows, Vernon for the first time saw what he actually looked like and he realised, his imagination was wrong in many ways. And so damn right in others.

Normally he wouldn’t stare so conspicuously – he still knew what good manners are – but this was Iorveth, his enemy. They saw the worst of each other already, so why pretend like there is any kind of decency between them.

Iorveth’s right eye was actually missing. Just an empty socket left where it used to be. The scar looked even nastier than he thought it would be. Probably got infected back in the day because it was still red and purple around the edges and so deep it didn’t look properly healed - although it must have been ages since he got it. These scars usually meant that the person ran away from the gravedigger's shovel. He can say by now.

The memory of his recent injury made him think about all the dreams and hallucinations he would (of course!) gladly forget. And the fact that he was correcting his dream images right as he was looking straight into Iorveth’s eye didn’t help either.

To his credit, he stared back at him all this time without comment and without any mention of an awkward situation. You could even say that was something to admire.

“And yet, here we are,” Vernon broke the silence, raised his mug as in a toast, and gave himself a generous couple of gulps.

Sigh. “Here we are.” The clinking returned, and when Vernon set his mug down, he saw that Iorveth opened himself a bottle of something unidentifiable. Good, Vernon thought, at least I’m not going to be the only one drunk here.

The bottle ended up at the table significantly emptier than before. “You still didn’t answer my question. Why aren’t you sleeping if you are so tired?”

Vernon grunted, looking into the distance. "I don’t know.” He ran his hands wearily over his face. What could he possibly say? Should he come up with some clichés? Actually, it wouldn't even be much of a lie; their lives weren’t exactly a cakewalk. He could ramble about how he's haunted by war nightmares, even when that's not really what keeps him from quality sleep. In the end, he opted for a middle ground. “I can’t. I guess I’m already living this life for too long, you know what I mean?”

Iorveth's expression softened. “Maybe it’s time to stop?” And then probably just for the fact that they were still enemies, he added: “I can kill you right here right now, and it would be over.”

“Very funny,” remarked Vernon wryly, and Iorveth snored with laughter, breaking his serious expression, while he took a sip again. “Admit it, you’d miss me.”

They both laughed and for a moment, their eyes locked. "You know, sometimes, a change of scenery helps with these things," said Iorveth cryptically.

Vernon wasn’t really sure what he wanted to say with this; maybe there was something unsaid hidden behind these words, or maybe he read too much into it, and it was just some strange elven idiom. Either way, it didn’t really matter. He too wasn’t completely honest with his words – as if he could ever tell anyone what keeps him up at night.

“Mind if I join you?”

Taken aback, Vernon studied his rival for a moment before nodding in agreement and gesturing to the place next to him. “Help yourself.”

Iorveth slumped on the bench, strangely relaxed considering the absurdity of their situation. He leaned in, his voice low and almost unrecognisable. "You know, it seems like - for enemies, of course - we could make surprisingly good drinking companions."

A smirk played on Vernon's lips. "Surprisingly indeed. Who would've thought we'd be sitting here, sharing a drink, instead of trying to kill each other?"

Iorveth grinned and tilted his head to look up at the starry sky. It was clear tonight. “Do you want to hear a fun fact?”

“Depends, what you consider fun.”

Iorveth gave him a skeptical look but continued: “The stars. That… constellation… That’s how it’s called in common, right?” He shifted closer so their vision would be more similar and pointed to the Great Bear. “Do you know its name?”

“No idea,” Vernon lied.

Iorveth continued about the name, origin, and appearance of the constellation with such enthusiasm as if he had longed terribly to tell someone about the stars for a very long time and had finally found the opportunity. “I wonder how drunk they must have been to see a bear in it. From when the bears have these dog tails?”

“You never know. Maybe back then bears had tails like this.”

“Bullshit. I’ve been alive long enough, and bears never had long tails.”

“Maybe you just never noticed it.”

“Oh yeah, and in the past years, they just started to chew it off I guess.”

“That’s true. They are hungry. And they are even chewing your ears when you sleep; that’s why yours are pointy.”

Iorveth started laughing, perhaps a bit deranged. “That’s why! I always wondered.”

He shifted back again, but not as far as they originally started. From this close, in this situation, he didn’t seem like his enemy at all. The line between friend and foe blurred, leaving them both in a space where the complexities of their past seemed momentarily irrelevant.

They continued talking, sharing their dumb stories, and just joking and ribbing each other, as the night unfolded and the holiday festivities faded into the background. In that quiet corner of the world, two enemies found an unexpected connection.

Suddenly a voice reached them from the square. It was the watchman. Ringing a bell rapidly and shouting so loud that everyone who was still awake had to hear him. Probably also drunk, but who would blame him. At least he could still say what time is it.

“So… Happy New Year, Vernon.” Iorveth rose his bottle and Vernon froze for a while as the intimacy of the name surprised him. No one called him that. That’s another thing that made Iorveth special. Just like in his dreams.

He had to get it together. Iorveth smiled—probably at his stupid expression. He smiled back. “Happy New Year, Iorveth.” Their toast almost disappeared in the sound of a bell announcing midnight.

Vernon couldn't help but wonder if all of this; the unexpected encounter, his confusing thoughts, and his injury were just some sick of a twist of fate forcing him to lose his mind.

-----

When this started I didn't think I'll ever continue. And here we are. I finished one whole series and am already planning another. Who would have thought? My boyfriend wanted to get credit for the "plot" here because I asked him: "What should happen if all they have to do in this one is just to meet?" And he was like: "End it with them just sitting together." The slowburn is so slow it almost isn't even burning. And it's not going to get better. As always, English is not my first language, so sorry if anything feels off. (Also, to "run away from the gravedigger's shovel" is Czech idiom for almost dying. I really like it so I just used it in English as well.)

Thank you for reading!

#my writing #rorveth #iorveth #vernon roche #ioroche

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apocalypticavolition · 1 year

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Let's (re)Read The Eye of the World! Chapter 42: Remembrance of Dreams

Rest easy, child. Moiraine is keeping you safe from the spoilers. This post is filled with spoilers for the whole of The Wheel of Time series and I am trying to get them stabbed into you, but you can avoid your fate! Just block the tags! Leave this post! Read the damn books or whatever! And don't blame me if you see spoilers from here on out.

This chapter's icon is the ravens, a way of representing the Shadow that the gang is desperately trying to find a way to escape. Luckily, there's nothing really going on to threaten them in this chapter.

He took five steps into the library before he realized that everyone else had stopped, crowded together in the doorway, openmouthed and goggling. A brisk blaze crackled in the fireplace, and Loial was sprawled on the long couch, reading, a small black cat with white feet curled and half asleep on his stomach. When they entered he closed the book with a huge finger marking his place and gently set the cat on the floor, then stood to bow formally.

Aww, Loial snuggles with kitties too. This book doesn't have enough kitty snuggles, there should have been one in literally every chapter.

(Also it's cute that Rand forgets how unusual Ogiers are from everyone else's perspective because he's just that buddy-buddy with Loial already. Rand's a good friend.)

Loial liked to talk, and talk at length when he had the slightest chance, though he usually seemed to think a story needed two or three hundred years of background to make it understood. His sense of time was very strange; to him three hundred years seemed a reasonable length of time for a story or explanation to cover.

To an Ogier, this is only providing a decade or so of context, which isn't anywhere near as much.

“You always were crazy,” Perrin said, and for a moment he, too, sounded as of old. “No,” Nynaeve said. Tears made her eyes bright, but she was smiling. “None of us blames you.”

Dammit people, more hugs! Hug Mat! Hug Moiraine! Hug Loial especially and then tell me how fluffy it was.

“Yes,” Moiraine said quietly, “he still has the dagger.” The laughter and talk was still going on among the rest of the Emond’s Field folk, but she had noticed his sudden intake of breath and had seen what had caused it. She moved closer to his chair, where she did not have to raise her voice for him to hear clearly.

Rand again shows he's the overall cleverest of the group in that he notices what's up right away, and Moiraine briefly flirts with being the kind of assistant to Rand that she should be by telling him the facts straight out. See how well you two get along in this conversation, Moiraine? All of your conversations could have been like that!

Rand made a sound, and Moiraine raised an eyebrow at him. “I thought they were looking for Mat and me,” he said.

Rand's reacting to Moiraine's infodumping, which again shows just how great a team they are when Moiraine is providing all the facts instead of trying to manipulate them! This sequence is really good in the trust she offers to everyone and it's a shame she reverts to her old habits again by the second book. I blame Siuan showing up, it made her feel young again.

“That’s what I always say,” Mat said blandly, though he was suddenly grinning hard, and Egwene asked in a decidedly neutral voice, “Who’s Elayne?”

Egwene, you spent several weeks dancing with the hottest boy you could find. You don't get to be pissy about Rand interacting with another girl. It's just annoyingly hypocritical and we are leaving the part of the book where romantic misunderstandings are fun.

I met some Tuatha’an a few years back, and they wanted to learn the songs we sing to trees. Actually, the trees won’t listen to very many anymore, and so not many Ogier learn the songs. I have a scrap of that Talent, so Elder Arent insisted I learn. I taught the Tuatha’an what they could learn, but the trees never listen to humans. For the Traveling People they were only songs, and just as well received for that, since none was the song they seek.

Please internalize this, WoT fandom. The Tuatha'an aren't stupid, they're well aware of the Ogier songs, and the Ogier songs aren't what they're looking for. No song is actually what they're looking for, but the Ogier songs can't even be sung properly by people so there's no match here at all.

“That’s what the Tinkers told us,” Perrin said. “Yes,” Egwene said, “the Aiel story.” Moiraine turned her head slowly. No other part of her moved. “What story?”

See what it feels like when people won't communicate useful information, Moiraine?

(Also I am 90% certain that it was only the Three Oaths that kept Perrin and Egwene alive through this exchange, and also Mat and Rand once the dream info comes out.)

Had I known after the first such, I might have been able to. . . . There has not been a Dreamwalker in Tar Valon for nearly a thousand years, but I could have tried.

I'm pretty sure that the real reason the boys don't tell Moiraien, Pattern-wise, is that she would have worn herself out trying to help. She sadly cannot.

He can still send Halfmen against you, and Trollocs, and Draghkar, and other things, but he cannot make you his unless you let him.

I'm mostly quoting this bit to show that Moiraine and Lan are in definite philosophical disagreement here. She's way more hopeful about the task at hand than he is, though these Two Rivers folk are probably making her less optimistic by the millisecond.

Out of the mass of humanity, the Dark One can touch an individual only by chance, unless that person seeks it. But for a time, at least, you three are central to the Pattern.

Also of course, the boys aren't being touched by the Dark One. They're instead being influenced by Ishamael, who is now free enough to do whatever he pleases.

“The Father of Lies is a good name for the Dark One,” Moiraine replied. “It was always his way to seed the worm of doubt wherever he could. It eats at men’s minds like a canker. When you believe the Father of Lies, it is the first step toward surrender. Remember, if you surrender to the Dark One, he will make you his.”

And this is the part where Moiraine loses the trust again. She could have told Rand the truth, but she sidesteps so blatantly instead that he has no choice but to distrust her.

“The Pattern presents a crisis, and at the same time a way to surmount it. If I did not know it was impossible, I could almost believe the Creator is taking a hand. There is a way.”

I wonder if Robert Jordan read much of Asimov's Foundation. In those stories, a man had deduced a way to predict the future in broad strokes and had established the titular Foundation to avert the 30,000 years of barbarism he foresaw. As the project would still take a thousand years, he left behind recordings identifying various turning points and leaving hints for the Foundation's members to use to swing events the proper way - they were referred to in-universe as "Seldon crises".

Much like Wheel of Time, Asimov died with this story unfinished and had later authors revisit the series, though sadly they only did a prequel trilogy instead of resolving the cliffhanger of the final chronological novel. It also is getting adapted these days and attracting a lot of alt-right rage for having women and people of color in the cast instead of the series of interchangeable white dudes - and hopefully Amazon's Wheel adaptation will continue the parallels by having a much stronger second season after a shakier first one.

Anyway I dunno why this notion struck me here, it's just something about the way Moiraine said it. Fun fact: the Creator can intervene and we'll be seeing that before the book ends, though he won't be doing much useful.

“No!” Loial said, an emphatic rumble like thunder. Everyone turned to look at him and he blinked under the attention, but there was nothing hesitant about his words. “If we enter the Ways, we will all die—or be swallowed by the Shadow.”

Oh yeah, this is probably another thing that the chapter icon was referencing. But we'll see more about that soon. Next chapter: more bad dreams!

#let's read #wheel of time #wot #robert jordan #wheel of time spoilers #wot spoilers #rand al'thor #perrin aybara #egwene al'vere #nynaeve al'meara #loial #moiraine damodred #mat cauthon #lan mandragoran

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macabremachinery · 2 years

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I was watching the adventures of mark Twain and the famous satan scene kinda reminded me of the short story am and that’s how I like to see short story am like he may or may not know what he’s doing is wrong yet he really has no other idea of express because he was designed for war and hurting other people

I originally had a much more eloquent response written out for this, but Tumblr fucked up and deleted it all while I was formatting, so unfortunately I’m having to offer a condensed version of my thoughts. Next time I’m just copy-pasting from Google Docs.

That’s a really fascinating comparison, OP. The true extent of AM’s sentience in the short story is actually kept rather vague.

The one who gives us the most insight into AM’s character is Ted while AM is delivering its iconic HATE speech. What you must remember however, is that Ted has been reduced to a paranoia-stricken madman who has a completely twisted perspective of the happenings around him. You could say that AM’s sentience did this to him, however, I think it’s a more likely chance that AM is just doing what its programming dictates, and what little creativity/freedom the machine harbors is just based off this. Ted is struggling to comprehend reality as it is, so he’s attempting to rationalize it with what little he does understand.

There’s a particular scene that occurs after AM delivers his speech to the 5 humans:

Don't ask why. I never did. More than a million times a day. Perhaps once we might be able to sneak a death past him. Immortal, yes, but not indestructible. I saw that when AM withdrew from my mind, and allowed me the exquisite ugliness of returning to consciousness with the feeling of that burning neon pillar still rammed deep into the soft gray brain matter.

He withdrew, murmuring to hell with you.

And added, brightly, but then you're there, aren't you.

This only adds on to the mystery of whether AM can actually infiltrate others thoughts like a malignant, aware God and influence them, or if Ted is just completely imagining this scenario. We never truly know, though I do have a thought regarding this.

AM is basically using physical and psychological warfare to relentlessly torment these people with the use of interrogation, cruel and unusual torture, and manipulation of themselves and their environment (how AM does this in the short story is kept vague, however in the video game it’s revealed it uses a combination of artificial intelligence, virtual reality, and a bioengineered serum that increases the longevity of organic beings, as well as the ability to create new life). Maybe it is entering Ted’s thoughts, but perhaps it does this as a psyop tactic, like attempting to frighten an enemy into giving information like a fervent CIA operative, rather than just doing so out of cruel, taunting volition.

Does AM know that its actions are terrible? I don’t know, but I do believe you’re onto something with the thinking that it doesn’t understand that it’s all inherently wrong, it’s just what its been taught to do, and has become accustomed to doing all along.

Also, on the topic of Satan, a gothic lit student reached out to me with their personal thoughts and asking about my own, in which I draw up similarities between AM and Lucifer. I recommend looking it over. It’s pretty cool how they’re tied together.

#ihnmaims #AM #questions #character study

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underestimated-heroine · 2 years

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Not my twelfth archive post 😭

General

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Personal

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Fairy Tail Gendercross Big4 Guys

#you've underestimated the heroine #refback #squirr3d away #video #tiktok

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imaginationstimulation · 2 years

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Introduction

What is beauty? You know it when you see it, but can you describe it? Can people agree on it, or is it purely subjective? Is our concept of beauty based in nature, or society? These are the questions that people have been asking themselves for thousands of years. It’s important to remember that beauty ideals are ever-changing. By looking at the past, we can see that at some point, just about everyone was considered the ideal.

We are going to learn a changeable women ideals of beauty throughout history in the pictures, sculptures created by those self-elected gods we call artists. History provides us a record, and from it one basic, inescapable, and ultimately unconscionable truth stands out: the ideals women are asked to embody, regardless of culture or continent, have been hammered out almost exclusively by men. This fact, more than any sort of evolutionary determinism, has meant that a fairly narrow range of attributes resurfaces across eras, returning every couple of decades.

Beauty, as defined by Webster’s Dictionary, is “the qualities that give pleasure to the senses or exalt the mind.” But what exalts my senses, something that I find beautiful, may very well be considered average or even ugly to others. Hence, the constant debate throughout history about what constitutes beauty.

Egypt

Nefertiti (1370–1330 BC)

This representation of the pharaoh’s wife, Nefertiti, is thought to be the most beautiful by both modern and ancient Egyptian standards.

The kohl around Nefertiti’s eyes and her apparently rouged lips speak to a desire for enhancement and adornment that seems too much a part of being human to have a historical starting point. Trends in altering how we look through fashion and jewelry in all likelihood predates any culture-wide preference for a specific body type. The Egyptian example has proven especially influential in the West, particularly since the 1920s.

Goddess Isis (332–30 BC)

For the ancient Egyptians the image of the goddess Isis suckling her son Horus was a powerful symbol of rebirth that was carried into the Ptolemaic period and later transferred to Rome, where the cult of the goddess was established. This piece of faience sculpture joins the tradition of pharaonic Egypt with the artistic style of the Ptolemaic period. On the goddess’s head is the throne hieroglyph that represents her name. She also wears a vulture head-covering reserved for queens and goddesses. Following ancient conventions for indicating childhood.

Cleopatra VII (69 BC — 30 BC)

Cleopatra VII Philopator, contrary to popular belief, was more Macedonian Greek than Egyptian. Her family tree consisted of siblings who married each other (Yes, incest was the custom in the Ptolemaic Kingdom), descended from the Macedonian general Ptolemy I. When she was presented to Julius Caesar, she made a grand entrance by being rolled up in a carpet. It was said that her beauty impressed Julius Caesar to side with her against her husband(he was her brother, Ptolemy XIII). She allegedly gave birth to Caesar’s son, Cesarean. After Caesar was assassinated and the Roman civil war was over, she used her beauty again to charm Mark Antony to side with her, to the point of him donating Roman territories to her children and moving the Roman capital to Alexandria.

Cleopatra is a famous cultural icon of feminine beauty from far history. She was the Ptolemaic Queen of Egypt. Even today, she is portrayed in many media and literature like 1934 and 1963 films Cleopatra, William Shakespeare’s tragedy Antony and Cleopatra and George Bernard Shaw’s play Caesar and Cleopatra.

She is a famous source of perpetual fascination in the Western culture. Cleopatra was the last known pharaoh of Ptolemaic Egypt. Even in the ancient world, she was regarded as a great beauty. A good deal of literature described and praised her beauty to a great extent. In Life of Antony by Plutarch, she has been remarked as “her beauty, as we are told, was in itself neither altogether incomparable, nor such as to strike those who saw her.”

Mummy Mask (60–70 AD)

Plaster masks seem to have been particularly popular in Middle Egypt. They develop of course from Egyptian traditions, but appearances could be strongly individualized and Roman fashions of hairstyle, dress and jewelry were followed to varying degrees. The woman is represented as if lying flat upon her bier. She wears a long Egyptian-style wig made of plant fibers, a deep-red tunic with black clavi (stripes), and jewelry that includes a lunula (crescent pendant), and snake bracelets. At the lower edge of her tunic are two holes, which were used for attaching the mask to the mummy. Over the top of her head is a gilded wreath encircling a scarab beetle that represents the sun appearing at dawn, a metaphor for rebirth.

Conclusion

This relationship between beauty and youth is a very significant part of the concept of beauty in Ancient Egypt, women were encouraged in their independence and beauty. Ancient society promoted a sex-positive environment where premarital sex was entirely acceptable and women could divorce their husbands without shame.

Egyptian women were small in overall stature. In this era, the ideal woman is described as slender, narrow shoulders, high, symmetrical face. Women — used wigs, hair extensions, and hairpieces, as thick, long hair was highly valued.

Women of high rank wore makeup. The Egyptians are, of course, well-known for their opulent eye makeup, which was applied from the eyebrow to the base of the nose. What many do not know, however, the ingredients of the makeup had antibacterial qualities and helped to deter flies and protect against the hot Egyptian sun. Many tinted their nails with sheep fat and blood or henna. Tattooing, generally from henna, was considered erotic, and was heavily practiced among certain classes in Egypt.

Greece

Until in the century of Pericles, fifth century BC, when Athens won a significant development, becomes the cultural, political and economic center of Greece, there was no clear definition of beauty. Before painting and sculpture to develop great beauty was attributed to other virtues such as truth, loyalty, harmony. However, when artists began to paint or write, began to outline some features that, if a person or an object had, they deserved to be called “beautiful.”

Greek philosophers were the first people who asked what makes a person beautiful. Platon, who saw beauty as a result of symmetry and harmony, created the “golden proportion”, he found that in order to be considered “beautiful”, women’s faces should be two-thirds as wide as they are long, and both sides of the visage should be perfectly symmetrical.

But the Greeks were not just obsessed with symmetry, but also long blond hair that is associated with youth and fertility.

Helen of Troy (1300–1200 BC)

For 3,000 years, the woman known as Helen of Troy has been both the ideal symbol of beauty and a reminder of the terrible power beauty can wield. Helen of Troy and the Trojan War were central to the early history of ancient Greece. She is the object of one of the most dramatic love

stories of all time and one of the main reasons for a ten-year war between the Greeks and Trojans, known as the Trojan War. Hers was the face that launched a thousand ships because of the vast number of warships the Greeks sailed to Troy to retrieve Helen.

The poems known as the Trojan War Cycle were the culmination of many myths about the ancient Greek warriors and heroes who fought and died at Troy. With so many men were willing to put their lives on the line to go to battle for her, it’s clear even without a contemporary portrait that Helen had a very special type of beauty.

Aspasia (500 BC)

Aspasia was an influential immigrant to Classical era Athens who was the partner and lover of the statesman Pericles. The exact details regarding the marital status of the couple are still unknown. Aspasia’s house became the center of intellectual teaching in Athens, attracting and influencing prominent teachers like Socrates.

Aspasia is known to have to become a hetaera in Athens, and she has displayed great physical beauty and intelligence. Aspasia’s role in history proves to be crucial to the clues for understanding the women of ancient Greece. In Athens, she was more than just an object of physical beauty and also she was noted for her ability as a conversationalist and adviser.

Phryne of Thespiae (370–316 BC)

Phryne of Thespiae was a famous courtesan of Athens, best known for the court case she won by baring her breasts. Her actual name was Mnesarete (“commemorating virtue”), but she was called Phryne (“toad”) because of the yellow complexion of her skin.

Ancient writers such as Athenaeus praise her extraordinary beauty, and she was the model for many artists and sculptors in Athens, including chiefly posing as Aphrodite.

She was acquitted and went on living a life of luxury as one of the most beautiful and sought-after women of Athens. She became wealthy enough to live as she pleased and even offered to re-build the walls of Thebes, which Alexander the Great had destroyed, if the people would consent to her inscription reading, “Destroyed by Alexander, Restored by Phryne the Courtesan”, but the Thebans refused her offer. Phryne is a famous figure of beauty from the ancient world who is still admired through statues and paintings.

Aphrodite (200 AD)

The Aphrodite exists only in copies of which there were many, because this Aphrodite represented the embodiment of female beauty for Classical Greeks. For us, she is the original Western model, woman as goddess, to be adored and feared. Her soft, rounded flesh bespeaks the power of her sexuality and advertises her life-giving potential. Aphrodite, the goddess who won the goddesses’ beauty contest that led to the Trojan War should be counted among the all-time world-class beauties.

However, this is a list of mortals, so Aphrodite (Venus) doesn’t count. Luckily, there was a woman so beautiful she was used as the model for a statue of Aphrodite. Her beauty was so great it brought about her acquittal when she was put on trial. This woman was the courtesan Phryne whom the famed sculptor Praxiteles used as his model for the Aphrodite of Knidos statue.

Conclusion

Ancient statues show us artists’ idealized form, which for women featured largish hips, full breasts, and a not-quite-flat stomach. But the Greeks were defining more than just “beauty” — they were nailing down the math of attractiveness.

Ancient Greece worshiped the male form, going so far as to proclaim that women’s bodies were ‘disfigured’ versions of men. In this time period, men faced a much higher standard of beauty and perfection than The Greeks were defining beauty literarily, thanks to 8th-7th Century BC author Hesiod, who “described the first created woman simply as ‘the beautiful-evil thing’. She was evil because she was beautiful, and beautiful because she was evil.”

The Greek idea of beauty was pale skin, golden locks and natural makeup. This is vastly different than that of the early adapters to cosmetics the Egyptians and soon we will find that to an extent this ideal is far less dramatic to that of the Romans.

In fact, I think we can conclude that most of the Greek and Egyptian makeup trends are vastly different. In Greece only rich women were able to use cosmetics due to their price.

When it came to Greek women and their hairstyles different lengths and arrangements meant different things. If one was a female slave she would wear her hair short, if a woman wasn’t a slave she would have long hair.

While many women today would pluck a thick “unibrow,” women in Ancient Greece liked the look, and many used dark pigment to draw one in.

Italy

Both for women and men, Romans inherited the Greek standards about symmetry and harmony. Beautiful bodies were proportioned in shape, limbs and face. The ideal of beauty for women was small, thin but robust constitution, narrow shoulders, pronounced hips, wide thighs and small breasts.Smooth white skin was very important for Roman women. To keep it beautiful, they put at night a mask called tectorium (traditionally invented by Popea, Emperor Nero’s wife), which they would remove the next day with milk. They exfoliated their bodies by smearing olive oil and then applying calcium carbonate or with pumice stones. Then they rinsed the mixture with water or with scented oils (cedar, myrrh, pine, lily, saffron, quince, jara, violet or roses). Women in the aristocracy also took milk baths (although Cleopatra is famous for it, it was a usual solution).

By the 1st century AD in the city of Rome the obsession with white skin became very important. Many women used products like bean flour to appear the maximum pale but according to Galen some of them also used lead powder which is extremely toxic.

Women had to be careful with cosmetics because applying them too much was considered only proper for prostitutes. By Greek influence, the eyebrows were very thick, painted with antimony or soot to create almost a unibrow. This custom fell in disuse at the beginning of 1st century BC and they started trimming the eyebrows.

Long eyelashes were considered very beautiful, eyes were shaped as big as possible with black antimony powder. Only in very special occasions, and after Cleopatra went to Rome, some women shaded their eyes with greenish clays (rich in celadonite, malachite or glauconite) or with bluish earth containing zurita.

White regular teeth were very valued (both in men and women). For a long time they used pumice powder or vinegar to clean them. Hispani used urine and this was considered very funny for the Romans (Catulus made a poem about a friend using this method). In the 1st century AD Escribonius Largus, the physician of the Emperor Claudius, invented the first toothpaste based on a mixture of vinegar, honey, salt and heavily crushed glass. If they were lacking teeth, they could use false ones made from ivory, human or animal teeth, sewn with gold.

For centuries Roman women considered mahogany (or red) hair the most beautiful. When Julius Caesar brought so many Gaul slaves to Rome, blond hair became a new obsession (and probably blue eyes, too). Many women started dying their hair with vinegar and saffron, sprinkling it with gold dust (or using gold hairnets) to make it golden. Pigeon droppings, goat fat and caustic soap were also used at the end of the 1st century AD. If they didn’t have enough hair, they had wigs made with real hair from German slaves.

The Republican hairstyle was quite simple, parted in the middle and a bun. In imperial times the fashion were complicated creations with several layers. Even modest women used crossed braids over the forehead. Married women, like vestal women and priestesses, would wear a hairstyle known as sex crines (six braids).

About body hair, from the existence of slaves only dedicated to shaving, historians think that they shaved the whole body. The mosaics don’t show hairy women. The canon for the face was large almond-shaped eyes, sharp nose, medium-sized mouth and ears, oval cheeks and chin.

Bikini Girls (300- 400 AD)

Part of a mosaic found in the early 4th-century Villa Romana del Casale in Sicily, the “Bikini Girls,” as they are known, provide one of the few celebrations of the female figure performing athletic acts, other than dance, in the history of art. Thin without being wrought by exercise, their vivacious bodies would not be out of place in mid-20th century Italy or America. Which is to say, the present a “natural” ideal, formed by activity rather than training.

Conclusion

Roman men preferred modest women who do not use too much make up or ornaments, but still had their ‘natural beauty’. This didn’t mean that Roman men were against cosmetics, since there is a lot of evidence that showed that the cosmetic business was popular then, but Roman men felt that makeup should be done for ‘preservation of beauty’, not ‘unnatural embellishment’.

Natural beauty symbolized chastity and purity, values held up high in the Roman Empire. Women wearing too much makeup or jewelry were seen as seductive and manipulative. Roman men liked women with a light complexion, smooth skin, and minimal body hair. White teeth, long eyelashes, and no body odor was preferable as well. To maintain these standards, rich Roman women used extensive measures to keep their ‘natural beauty’.

Wealthy women like Cleopatra and Poppaea were known to have bathed in milk to keep their milky complexion. Many skincare products were sold in the Roman Empire. Examples are oil from sheep’s wool for makeup, chalk powder as a whitener, gum Arabic as wrinkle cream, and ash from snails as treatment for freckles and sores. Roman women shaved and plucked with resin paste and pumice stones. Perfume was to be strong enough to block off body odor, and not too strong to the point of reeking. As for things that couldn’t be taken care of such as oral hygene(oral hygene was backwards then), fake teeth made from bone and ivory were used. Romans may also have preferred light haired women, a tradition borrowed from the Greeks.

Greek and Roman women used oils, vinegar, and customized hats to keep their hair light. Hairstyles were important too. Young maidens had long hair, slave girls had shorter hair, and matrons had their long hair tied into a bun and adorned with accessories.

#beauty #beautiful #ideals #women #history #women's history #beauty standards #cleopatra #courtesan #phryne #aphrodite #ancient greece

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blackbutlerfandomnerddomain · 1 year

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So I made this post with a promise of headcanons, and here we are!

Read ahead if you don't mind or already aware of spoilers!!!

Sorry if the picture is small that's the best I could do

Bi-Wal:

Has liked Dong-Young since childhood (duh)

Is as flirty as he acts like around a crowd, he was raised in a household where it's rare but often times not meant to be taken seriously but for him being overly affectionate is just how he shows affection

Is very touch starved and will demand attention is needed, this man doesn't stop til he gets a hug, some cuddles, or a kiss

He suffers from nightmares based off his family which yeah...are a lot...

I always headcanon him being the one who knows a lot more of the LGBTQAI+ side of things and has been open his pansexuality since he knew the word

No i will not do a bi joke for him, he is pan to me

Man-bun man-bun man-bun man-bun man-

Wants a big family but understand if Dong-Young or the others are not into the idea

Second best cook

Dong-Young:

Endy icon. Legit was allowed to dress however she wants and refer people to call her another name but was forced by her parents to dress up "proper" for the sake of royal image, what else?

Uses all pronouns and cried the first time one of her brothers used he or them pronouns

Very rarely gets called her princess name

Actually does have the ability to change her gender with magic but it's too tiring

Eats a lot

Has a massive fear of the dark and vase empty rooms since childhood due to being isolated a lot

Can't cook for shit but learning

Owns a kitten now cat in her home on human realm when she ran away she loves a lot and kind of became the house's guardian

Does not get along with her parents for obvious reasons above and the whole plot of "you must marry this man we never met so we can end a war we started instead of doing a meeting"

Is a hoodie stealing gremlin

Do-Hyun:

Since he's the second eldest besides Bi-Wal he's much more mature than them all by a land slide. yes even more mature than the one older than him

A thing I would like to write in as he is the guard dubbed The Black Turtle he has this ability to shield those he pick but still gets scars from any damage towards the shield

Is question is sexuality a lot since arriving the the human realm but no says he demi

Likes anime and games but doesn't say anything other than he knows certain things

Collects rocks and crystals

Sage the house often

Third best cook, rarely cooks in general and when he does they aren't that special

Ee-Jung:

As he's the guardian of The Red Phoenix he has fire based abilities like smoke shows, fire starters, sparks, etc.

Best cook

Deeply despises his parents and relatives for the treatment towards his sister Ah-Hin as well the things he and her were forced to do growing up such as him dress up like a girl and her dressing in rags and always dirty

Took a while for him to look at makeup or "feminine" things and not shiver but now does wear makeup but very rarely

One of the youngers with Dong-Young so they get each other in a funny way

His eyes get fire red or orange when he's mega mad

When he goes into his guardian form he has small markings of feathers

Likes to be pet

Nails grow fast like talons when he's stressed or really angsty or angry

Heals up rather fast if he isn't severely injured, it just brush away after a few minutes like ash

Has a collection of CDs he got from the human realm

Them as a relationship:

This is them after Ee-Jung joined the relationship

In canon of the manga's ending, he was iffy seeing Dong-Young marry but remained loyal til the end but he wept when he gets offered to be her lover

Has always loved Dong-Young child childhood but unlike Do-Hyun silently wished it away and not deal with the heart ache later on

Cuddle pile is arranged as: Bi-Wal - Big Spoon / Main Hugger Do-Hyun - Second Big Spoon / First Middle Spoon / The one who wraps his arms around Dong-Young Ee-Jung - Middle Spoon who flops on top trapping the legs and Dong-Young Dong-Young - Small Spoon / Middle Spoon sandwiched between Bi-Wal and Do-Hyun and is often has her hands, legs, and arms wrapped around all three

I will cry and be happy if someone gets into this manga series and make a edit of this ship as this song

Ee-Jung and Bi-Wal are usually allowed in the kitchen to make food if their lovers are hungry

Ah-Hin and her soon to be husband (lets face it they're cute) Woo-Hyun are huge supporters of the relationship and are ready to fight if someone disagrees for any reason!

More gifs of what could be them?

#angel diary #angel diary headcanons #dong-young whang #bi-wal jin #ee-jung kim #do-hyun yun #hey look a new ot4 #ot4 #mentions of #ah-hin kim #woo-hyun yun

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villains4hire · 1 year

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Android 21 - I will be referring to her as 'V' if you prefer that over 21 or just want a mix of both. (Dragonball Z: Fandom Separated)

1 - Alright I'm going out the gate with this: unless your character is literally from DBZ. I won't be using the power scaling from that universe for this character, or maybe even at all. I would say eh, at most she's like 'Thanos' levels of power but mostly just a brute rather than any of the utility he had. And usually either has powers to help with combat rather than anything super useful like time manipulation et cetera. However, that being said, most of the DBZ big villain characters are capable of destroying multiple galaxies, planets at once. So while this is a factor, I am more than fine scaling her down to like... Superman levels of power or something as it's overwhelming otherwise with little consequence. Her real mechanic is potentially scaling endlessly, but I'm willing to reset her if she dies fully then regenerates/revives. So yes, I'm willing to let protags, characters or otherwise fight her as I think just her having a higher number and winning automatically is a bit lazy writing/dumb baby fandom Goku auto-wins vs everyone fighting logic. You just NEED to talk to me first when fighting this character, as I will have two tags for this power-scaling.

2 - With that, I will more or less be separating her from the fandom and DBZ rpc, but open to it otherwise. I will have a 'vague canon' sense for her for the events that happened, then simply have her fighting her split ego as an event they simply fused then counterbalanced another out. Forming another being entirely that no longer can return to her human form, but has their old memories, combined personalities, etc. She's not the most difficult

3 - I will make jokes/4th wally jokes with this show at times or a lot about it's writing, so honestly expect it as it's DBZ, but also be serious at others. DBZ is one of those shows that it's like... so bad that it's good from the cheesy power scaling then having some pretty good fight-scene choreography. Though there were some good moments, I think it peaked at the Frieza arc then became kinda samey until they did DBZ Super or whatever it was called? It improved a lot with that, but it's DBZ, it's kind of plagued by the concept of old fighting anime/power scaling but I'll do my best to actually make it enthralling/funny. So I can write her seriously, but I will be upfront that I will also poke fun at the show in an endearing way.

4 - I will not have this character attack, physically bully or kill yours out the gate, as I know rp wise the consequences of this character using any of her power to retaliate. Just... don't threaten her or insult her frequently is all I ask unless she's having an insult-off/I return it, she's semi-hard to push for how I have her. Just expect her to be extremely unhinged or odd in her train of thought at times. More or less sticking to canon for characterization with a lil bit of extending.

5 - This character does eat people by turning them into sweets or just straight up absorbs them into her goo, talks about eating people. So if that bothers you? Uh, may wanna move on from this character. Otherwise, you're good to go. Other than violence, murder, I can't think of many more triggers with this one.

The artwork is noted to be unedited as I simply like her toned and more or less fine with canon. Left the water mark but not suggesting the artist as I'm... not sure if they're okay or not? I'm a bit iffy but you can see their patreon in the water mark as 'putcher'.

Do I want them to die: Sure, it's DBZ, everyone has died a few times in the series. It's fairly meaningless but crossovers I will say let's just, try to plot it out or it'll be a joke death. Will I have/get icons: I got plenty! Tag: sweet maji (Default) - z powered (Canon Power Capability, levels of Thanos or characters that can compete with him and can destroy multiple planets, a galaxy when exerting) - z crossed (Crossover Scaling at more or less placing her around Superman/Even with other big bads/protags). These power scaling tags are purely for verse dependent, though I CONSIDER THESE VERSES MORE OR LESS ALL COMBINED FOR INTERACTIONS. Why? I think it's funny, cheesy, plays into DBZ’s inconsistency even if it means her dying. dbz maji (Canon Request Only Verse) rampage maji (This character has gone on a rampage, cannot be reasoned with and has probably absorbed other characters/eaten them for their powers and is running out of control. This is request/plot only) Age: Thirty Seven. Sex: AMAB born, though chooses none usually other than for obvious reasons. Gender: Fem Presenting, any pronouns. Race: Majin Android. (Present) What she was, whether human or otherwise is unknown to her. Sexuality: If they like you. Personality traits: Loves sweets, eating people. Sadistic, Masochistic. Brutal. Fairly Neutral if not odd or bizarre from her full fusion in her fight with her other ego in canon. Generally doesn't attack first unless she feels a need to if something is at stake that matters. Jokey, whimsical, murdery. Tends to have contrasting maturity at times though can combine it with a joking, older woman insight or vastly immature joking/insane ramblings, banter. When calm, she's rather kind, almost 'motherly'. Is interested in her own scientific pursuits to herself, possibly to stabilize herself or make herself more stable. To further her own studies on herself. She wanders naturally being a Majin and feels the need to, especially to other life. Self-sacrificing. Fairly tragic as a person? Extremely loving, loyal. Mental traits: Majin Insanity: has various mental traits of Kid Buu and Majin Buu (Good) in terms of insanity when being unhinged. Though combined with her own personality? It has its own manifestation of having traits of Kid Buu and 'Good' Buu, but with her own varying levels of maturity. So her personality might jump at times depending on how much she's riled up/feels though mostly with a femme fatale vibe, granted, she might change tune if really pissed off. Has a semi-identity crisis when it comes to who she is. Physical traits: Around 6'1 and toned visually. Powers: I will just be using her canon powers as she really, REALLY doesn't need help. Flight - Ki Flight Ki Blast - Basic Energy Blasts - High-Heeled Ki Slash, a unique Charged Ki Blast where she kicks using high-heeled boots to fire a barrage of pink sword-blast-like Ki Slashes. This energy manipulation is planetary to galactic depending on verse. Tail Attack - she can weave her attacks with her tail to make a rather chaotic and fluid fighting style. Hungry Beam - this turns people into food Sweet Tooth/Absorption - either through her good or her food or energy, matter, she can absorb or consume people, energy, matter for their power or intelligence. If she does this too much, however? She can go berserk, however. This usually only happens if she needs it. Otherwise, she can shed excess power and energy (if she's stable enough to think to do this) (Canon adjusted powered to mostly balance her but also make her more flexible) Connoisseur Cut Fighting Style - this strike absorbs her opponent's energy partially and copies their moves. She uses acrobatics, instant transmission with this along with other things listed on her wiki, as they’re more style rather than explicit powers. Be aware, while this character can’t instantly absorb yours? If allowed to grapple or part of her goo envelops your character? They’re pretty much absorbed, so try not to like... let that happen in an rp unless you want her to do that. She wouldn’t do this to good people when stable, however or neutral, as the character in question cannot die until she does at that point. It’s a state of purgatory in a way, though they can eventually be absorbed fully if left for too long. She would do this if desperate though and about to die, however. Z Fighter Moves - she can use the more common powers of the Z-Fighters such as Solar Flare, Kamehameha, Instant Transmission, etc. This is merely from a pool of fighters she already canonically knows pretty well. Photon Swipe - a death-beam capable of destroying planets or a galaxy depending on the verse scaling. Excess Power Detonation - to basically release steam when threatening to go berserk? Android 21 can release energy to either enhance herself physically or her blasts by a large amount behind her base power. Survivability - Frieza, Cell, Kid Buu and their cells are a part of her being and makes her an extremely enduring being. Such as it’d probably take the force of several planets to do major damage to her as in canon, granted this scales down with verse. Regeneration Extreme - She has instant regeneration in canon and has one of the greatest capabilities in the series. Futuristic Intelligence - Specializing in Biology and Robotics specifically, it’s mostly due to studying her own composition and what she has in terms of memories from canon and intelligence. Then being able to create clones of other powerful beings if she desires, though would not at this point. It’s just worth noting that she can be talked to intelligently. Motivations: Wildly varies depending on her mood. But the main ones tend to be: having fun, eating, then finding some sort of stabilization to her own mind. Backstory:

Vaguely uses her canon backstory, like going unhinged to the point of splitting when killing her adopted son from losing control. I have them fuse in the final fight and more or less have them balanced out leaning towards 'good'. As otherwise, interactions would be relatively hard without murder as a result.

#long post #bios save #ic #sweet maji #z powered #z crossed #dbz maji #rampage maji

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unfairchoices-a · 6 years

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@ofconflictions from here

It was taking everything in him not to grin right now. He held onto her hand and smiled lovingly at her. "You have no idea how worried I was my love. I just... I tried to be here as much as I could," He was going to twist things about. Make her isolate herself from her friends. That's precisely what he was going to do. "I'm just so happy I can now take you home,"

#using mark icons when he's being a human? yes #🌹𝖜𝖊𝖑𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖊 𝖙𝖔 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖆𝖇𝖞𝖘𝖘🌹 replies

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delimeful · 3 years

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in sickness and in health (2)

this fic was patron picked to be published by a 24 hour poll! hope you enjoy! :)

warnings: fear, fairly bad illness, murder mentions, crying, remus saying some remus things

The next morning, after a few measly hours of sleep, Virgil poked his head out of one of the upper boltholes in his human’s bedroom and found him still in the same position, the sheets damp with sweat around him.

Another check in a couple hours later found much the same.

And another.

And then night had fallen, and still his human hadn’t moved, looked perhaps even worse than before. Even more galling, nobody else had come over to check on him.

It was to be expected, he knew. He’d seen the human collapse and sleep a day or two away after one of his week-long at-home work sessions; it was only natural that his many friends assumed this was the same sort of scenario.

Except it wasn’t. And now his stupid human was too unconscious to even contact anyone. Virgil dragged his hands over his face, bemoaning the situation and humans and even the world in general.

He peeked down over the ledge, studying what he could see of the burns. Another application couldn’t hurt. At the very least, his parents hadn’t raised him to leave a job half-done.

His human would wake up soon, he told himself sternly as he made the trek over to the nightstand. He paused, and shook his head. There was no point in avoiding using names anymore. He was literally risking his life to go tend to the human’s wounds— he was much more than attached, at this point.

Patton would wake up soon, he told himself as he unscrewed the ointment tube’s cap. It almost sounded a little more believable like that.

Unfortunately, it ended up being truer than he would have liked.

He was halfway done with the right hand when the general unease he wore around like a second skin suddenly spiked into outright fear. He went still, straining all his senses.

There— it was the silence that was setting him off. The constant backdrop of low, raspy breathing had suddenly gone completely quiet.

As if someone was holding their breath.

Slowly, Virgil turned to confirm what his instincts were already telling him, and met the gaze of a pair of huge brown eyes.

Despite himself, he went frozen. Knowing how large humans were was one thing, but being seen by one? It had never happened to him before, and he felt utterly pinned under the stare.

(His sleeves were rolled up. Could the human see the markings on his body? Other borrowers recognizing Virgil as a part of that group was bad enough, but a human-- A human could do so much worse.)

Patton let out a little whoosh of air, as though deciding that he didn’t have to hold his breath to avoid disturbing him anymore. “Um, hi.”

His voice, even at an almost-whisper, was crackly and rough, and it made Virgil jerk slightly, his mind desperately trying to convince his locked up body to bolt already.

Patton’s hand twitched a little in response to the motion, and Virgil went stone-still again. He was standing right next to the curve of the hand, had unwittingly practically done everything but climb into the human’s palm himself. In this position, he had no doubt that in a race between him and Patton’s reflexes, he would lose.

But the human hadn’t grabbed yet. The longer it stayed that way, the better.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” Patton mumbled apologetically. His eyes were a little glazed over; he probably thought he was dreaming. Good for Future Virgil, bad for Present Virgil. “You takin’ care of me?”

Virgil let the silence stretch, and then nodded a little when it was clear Patton was waiting for an answer. There was no point in denying it; he’d been caught red-handed. Ointment-handed. Whatever.

“Thanks,” Patton replied, face scrunching up into a weak grin. “I guess a little first aid is just what I needed.”

Not even a raging fever could hold back the puns, it seemed. Virgil narrowly avoided snorting, a return jab about Patton being a big pain on the tip of his tongue.

Abruptly, though, the hand was curling around him, sending his pulse racing as his route of escape was cut off.

Horrific ways this could end ran through his mind one after another; The human was nearly out of his head with fever, all he had to do was misjudge his strength even a little and Virgil would snap—

Everything went still again. Virgil struggled to slow his breathing, gaze darting back and forth like a cornered mouse. Patton’s hand had curled around him, pressing just slightly on his arms without actually trying to lift him. He was just sort of... holding him.

“Y’okay?” Patton murmured, and his thumb (thankfully ointment-free) gently patted his shoulder. “It’s justa’ thank you hug.”

On cue, his almost-grip loosened, hand remaining half-cupped around him but open enough that he could easily step out. Testingly, he stepped forward once, twice, always watching Patton’s face like a hawk as he did.

Patton blinked slowly at him, apparently completely unfazed by Virgil performing the world’s slowest escape.

It wasn’t until he was nearly to the edge of the bed that Patton stirred, shuffling his shoulder a bit and turning his head a bit farther to keep watching him.

“Leavin’?” he asked, looking almost a little worried. Virgil couldn’t imagine why; if anyone had the right to be worried here, it was him.

Still, he was finally close enough to his hook that he could definitely make it if Patton even twitched wrong toward him, so he took a deep breath and nodded, waiting to see how the human would react.

“‘Kay, be safe,” Patton offered, his cheek smushed against his pillow. His eyes were already half-lidded, apparently already preparing to head back to sleep now that there weren’t any convenient borrowers around to scare the life out of.

It couldn’t be that easy. Could it?

Virgil kept checking over his shoulder as he grabbed his rope, but Patton’s attention had already strayed, and as he descended, the human’s breathing returned to that familiar, sleep-slow cadence.

He only barely managed to make it back into the walls before a hysterical laugh bubbled up from his chest. He slid down to a sitting position, trying to get his breathing under control. He’d been seen, he’d have to pack up everything he’d made and leave to face the treacherous elements again--

… Except. Except Patton hadn’t grabbed him. That was no promise of safety, but… really, he had barely seemed fazed at all by the presence of a tiny person in his space. Unnaturally so, for a human. Virgil knew well how a ravaging sickness could make anyone less than keen, leave their memory foggy. There was every possibility that that was the case here.

And if it was… Virgil didn’t have to move. He could observe Patton once he got better, stay discreet and make sure that his existence was dismissed as nothing more than a fever dream.

It was a risk, but… wasn’t every choice a borrower made risky?

(He was tired of leaving homes behind.)

---

There was one problem with his plan: it required Patton to get better.

Watching the human now, it seemed that he was intent on doing anything but that. Virgil scowled down at the bed from his check-in shelf, trying to shove down the worry at the sight of Patton twisting and turning in the sheets, iller than ever.

It seemed his moment of brief lucidity (if it could be called that) hadn’t lasted. He’d spent over a day in bed, only getting worse.

Virgil was getting well and truly worried.

(He didn’t know how long it took humans to recover, but he had an extensive frame of reference for how long it took humans to succumb to sickness.)

He’d taken to pacing indecisively back and forth at his latest check in, thousands of potential options and their terrible outcomes running through his head, when a low noise caught his ear.

Patton was crying, little hitching sobs that came out rough and crackly, blinking harshly as he stared up at the ceiling.

Virgil couldn’t tell why; it could’ve been a nightmare, physical pain, or just the helplessness of being so terribly sick. He gripped the edge of the shelf he was hiding on, biting his lip harshly.

If he called out, would it help? Would Patton listen? Would he remember, later?

Before he could try, the creak of bedsprings drew his eyes back to the human, who was twisting onto his side, reaching for the bedside table. Where his phone was.

“Yes,” Virgil whispered, watching the human strain to reach just a little further. “Come on, come on…”

Patton’s hand grabbed at the edge of the phone, so close to being able to finally get the help he needed— and it fell right through his fingers, his grip too weak to hang onto it.

It was as though their spirits plummeted right along with the phone, landing with a muffled thud on the bedroom floor. Patton let out another half-sigh, half-sob, and settled back onto the bed, exhausted from even that small expenditure of energy. Virgil’s lip began to bleed from how hard he was biting it.

Within moments, the room was quiet again, Patton returning to that hazy unconsciousness.

By then, Virgil had already made his choice.

(It was almost poetic. What better way to spit in the face of his upbringing than to save a human?)

He made his way through the walls in record time, finally able to use the pent up energy he’d accumulated from all that time helplessly watching.

Once he got to the floor, he paused for only a moment to listen to the rhythmic breathing above before darting over to the phone, lying in the shadow of the bed. He flipped it over and pressed the button, the screen lighting up with a picture of a cat.

“Isn’t he allergic?” Virgil muttered, and then shook his head, swiping through to the home screen. Luckily, Patton didn’t seem to have any locks, though Virgil hated to imagine how that trust could be abused.

He recognized the old phone shape on one of the icons easily enough, and squinted at the contact list for a long moment before finding the one with a tiny picture of someone he recognized: Patton’s loud friend, the one who came over for movie nights when they were both free (a rare occurrence).

“Roman”’s number was pressed immediately, and it was only as the phone began to ring that Virgil realized he had not thought this plan through.

The phone rang once, twice, and just as he thought it would ring out and he’d be able to think of a plan-- “Patton! Perfect timing!”

He jerked away from the tinny voice, casting a glance up at the bed where Patton laid. If this was enough to rouse him, even just enough to talk, this situation would resolve itself.

“...Patton? Hellooo?”

The human above didn’t even twitch at his friend’s call.

“Ooh, did you get a booty call from Daddy Dearest?” another voice asked, gleeful and a little bit fainter than the first.

“What-- it’s buttdial, I know you know how that sounds, Remus!” There was the sound of tussling for a moment, and then Roman’s voice piped back up, sounding strained. “Okay, Pat, call back later, I guess? Remus, lemme go--”

The line went dead.

Virgil smacked the screen harshly, cursing the fact that Patton’s friends were apparently prone to nonsense and not nearly as concerned as they should be about the situation, as little as they knew about it. He glanced up at his Human again, brow furrowed.

No speaking, no texts, no physical evidence. How could he get their attention without giving himself away?

He leaned forward and pressed the call button again.

“Uh… Patton?” There was a long pause, and then a nervous laugh. “Jeez, what is he up to?”

Virgil hung up, and called again.

“What the heckity heck--”

Virgil hung up, and called again.

“Patton, are you there?”

“Maybe there’s a serial killer in his house and he can’t pipe up or they’ll get to his windpipes!” the second voice, presumably “Remus”, chimed in.

“Shut up, that’s not it!” There was an uncertain pause. “Patton, that’s not it, right? C’mon, Padre, you’re freaking me out worse than the Outage Incident of ‘09.”

Virgil hung up, and called again, ignoring the phone’s buzzing as worried texts began to filter in.

“Something’s wrong. If his phone was accidentally calling me from his pocket, he’d be replying to my texts.”

Yes! Virgil held his breath, letting the thick silence hang in the air.

“Patton, are you there? Do you need help? Give me some sort of signal,” Roman pleaded, and Virgil leaned back, desperately searching his memory for a sign that would mean something to Roman.

There was something he’d overheard, lurking in nearby wall corridors during one of their sleepovers. Roman had been waxing poetic about effective storytelling.

“That’s the thing about repetition,” he’d said. “Like that saying! Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, but three times? That’s a pattern. And patterns have meaning!”

Virgil had rolled his eyes at the time. The advice didn’t hold true for borrowers, who avoided patterns like the plague. One slip up was all it took to have to uproot his whole life or worse, after all.

Now, though, he latched onto the memory with both hands.

Two witnesses to this were two too many, but so long as they couldn’t prove anything… he pulled out his hook and carefully tapped the side of the phone, producing three distinct, dull clinks.

There was a clutter of alarmed arguing on the other end, and Virgil hurriedly smacked the red ‘end call’ button once more, his nerves frayed.

After a moment, more texts popped up.

Roman!!! ❤️👑✨: patton, i know you wouldnt pull a prank like this

Roman!!! ❤️👑✨: ur spare key is still under the kitten statue, right?

Roman!!! ❤️👑✨: im coming over

Virgil sank back on his heels, letting out a long sigh of relief. Thank goodness he knew how to read.

After another moment of shaky decompression, he hurried back into the walls, returning to his former vantage point on the shelf.

The phone lit up a few more times, the cheery ringtone of an attempted call still not quite enough to bring Patton back to awareness. Virgil resisted the urge to go climb up on a windowsill, knowing that it was far too risky, and he wouldn’t be able to recognize any human vehicles anyhow.

Finally, finally, there was the sound of a key rattling in the front door’s lock. Virgil ducked back behind a novelty bobblehead as voices spilled into the house, growing more alarmed once they reached the kitchen. Virgil remembered belatedly that the mess from Patton’s disastrous attempt to make cookies was still there.

“Patton!” Roman appeared at the doorway, eyes fixed on the bedridden form of his friend. He rushed over, pressing a wrist to his forehead. “You’re burning up…”

With some careful maneuvering, he managed to lift Patton from the bed in a bridal carry, calling for Remus to get the door.

And then they were gone, off to the human version of a sickbay.

Virgil sprawled back, letting all the tension leave him, his heart still racing from his part in it all.

Now, all he had to do was wait.

#sanders sides #sanders sides fic #borrowers #ts virgil #ts patton #ts roman #ts remus #g/t #isaih #in sickness and in health #my writing #writing #bthb #am i missing tags?

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impalementation · 3 years

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spike, angel, buffy & romanticism: part 4

part 1: “When you kiss me I want to die”: Angel and the high school seasons

part 2: “Love isn’t brains, children”: Enter Spike as the id

part 3: “Something effulgent”: Season five and the construction of Spike the romantic

“But I can’t fool myself. Or Spike, for some reason.”: Buffy and Spike as a blended self

Before I get into seasons six and seven, it’s worth asking: why would the show do all of this? Why would it spend all of this time developing a supporting villain and joke id character? Why would it give him a romantic arc? I see people say that the writers only gave Spike these storylines because he was popular or they wanted to keep him around, but even that being the case, there was no need to give him the specific arc that they did. It’s more than possible to read meaning into the story that they chose from the array of possible options.

Here is the thing about the id. It’s not actually something separate from you. It’s not a ravenous monster you can blame your weaknesses on while remaining pure and dignified. The id is part of you. The immediate and enduring appeal of Spike is, I suspect, strongly influenced by the fact that the things the id wants are so very human and sympathetic. His foibles and mistakes are often painfully familiar, even exaggerated through vampirism as they are. In fact, it’s precisely because Spike is allowed to show a full range of reactions to love, because the writing is under less pressure for him to do the “right” or dignified thing, that he can at times be compelling in ways other characters can’t. If Spike just did nasty things, his appeal wouldn’t be much more complicated than the appeal of Angelus, who people tend to like as a villain or storyline rather than as a relatable character. But Spike doesn’t want to dismember nuns or construct elaborate murder tableaux. He wants familiar things like love, identity and meaning, even if the ways he goes about getting them can reflect people’s worst impulses.

Which brings us to Buffy, and Buffy’s story about growing up. Buffy is Buffy’s show, which means that every writing choice tends to revolve around her arc in one way or another. And this goes for Spike’s storyline even more than most. In the final three seasons of the show, the writing finally engages with how inextricable the id--and all of its impulsive, inarticulate romantic desires--really is from a person’s self. So instead of keeping Spike at a comfortable distance, both Buffy and the writing begin to take him seriously. They begin to invite him in.

Starting in season five, it’s telling how frequently Buffy herself projects on Spike, rather than just the writing setting them up as mirrors. She tells him that he’s the “only one strong enough” to protect her family, and later assigns Dawn specifically to his protection. In “Spiral” she describes him as “the only one besides me that has any chance of protecting Dawn.” This is a very intimate role that she otherwise only assigns to herself (and which is not really based on pure practicality, considering that she’ll later describe Willow as her “big gun”--yet never gives Willow the task of protecting Dawn). She tells him that he cannot love, which is the thing she fears most about herself. Her protests that Spike is a vampire, and thus cannot express or want human things like love, mirror her lamentations that as the Slayer, she cannot have a normal life.

From the Gilliland Gothic double essay:

More than any of her other lovers, Buffy and Spike overlap one another so often that at times their character arcs become nearly indistinguishable. With Angel, Buffy traveled a parallel path in attempting to master self-control. With Riley, her journey ultimately took her in the opposite direction. With Spike, Buffy’s journey is most closely shadowed, in that her interactions with him in many ways can be seen as metaphors for her feelings about herself.

So now Spike is multiple things. On the one hand, he’s the soulless id he’s been since season two. His vampiric behavior represents a morally uninhibited way of reacting to romantic frustrations, among other things. But on the other hand, his vampirism now also marks him as like Buffy, not merely her opposite.* Nor is he only her mirror in the realm of romantic love. The part of him that is a vampire is the part of him that is supernatural (ie, Romantically larger-than-life), that sets him apart from regular people, and dictates how he can and cannot behave. Just like Buffy’s slayerness. His vampirism is what makes him capable of protecting Dawn, while also making him (supposedly, according to Buffy) incapable of human feeling--again, just like Buffy’s slayerness. Instead of Buffy’s Slayer side being aligned with Angelus, who was an unmitigated evil, it becomes aligned with Spike, who is something more complicated.

*(Though it must be noted that this was a process that began in season four, with the show aligning Spike with the Scoobies by making him a victim of the Initiative. Spike being supernatural suddenly marks him as non-normative, just like the Scoobies, in contrast to the institutional conformity that the Initiative represents. The evolution towards treating the Romantic supernatural as something positive and associated with identity plays a key role in transitioning the show to the more complicated attitudes of the last three seasons.)

This shift in the show’s attitudes towards the id affects how Spike is used. In “Blood Ties” for example, Spike assists Dawn in breaking into the Magic Shop and in “Forever” he helps Dawn resurrect her and Buffy’s mother. In both cases, Spike could be read as embodying impulsive behavior that Buffy is supposed to be better than. Yet both cases specifically involve Spike helping Dawn, who is repeatedly portrayed as Buffy’s human side. As Buffy says in “The Gift”: “[Dawn]’s more than [my sister]. She’s me. The monks made her out of me. [...] Dawn is a part of me. The only part that I--”. In other words, Buffy’s id becomes closely tied to her humanity, even going so far as to become its safeguard. “Blood Ties” ends with Buffy affirming her connection to Dawn, which Spike’s rule-breaking directly enabled, and “Forever” ends with Buffy acknowledging how desperately she wants her mother back too, and becoming closer to Dawn as a result. (Compare to “Lovers Walk”, where Buffy acknowledging her id results in her breaking away from Angel, not drawing closer to anyone). Or in “Intervention”, Spike building the Buffybot directly parallels Buffy’s own anxieties about what she thinks she should be. She thinks she’s losing her ability to love, and that effusive fakery is her only recourse (as she said in “I Was Made to Love You”: “Maybe I could change. [...] I could spend less time slaying, I could laugh at his jokes. I mean men like that right? The joke laughing at?”), a fear that even has some merit, given that her friends cannot tell her and the bot apart. Instead of Buffy and Spike having separate arcs in the episode, Spike learning the difference between real and fake dovetails with Buffy’s own relationship to her realness and fakeness. It turns out that neither of them want a bot version of Buffy. They want real emotion, things like sacrifice and heartfelt gratitude. If even Buffy’s id would let itself be killed for Dawn, then maybe she has nothing to fear from herself. Maybe there is some beauty in the emotional part of her nature that she thinks she must repress.

In other words, part of the writing (and Buffy) fully engaging with romanticism and the id, means engaging with the ways they can be bad and good. There’s this weird thing that happens with Spike as soon as he falls in love with Buffy, where suddenly his actions are more uncomfortable, and to many, off-putting, because their object is Buffy (instead of another vampire like Harmony or Drusilla, who either enjoy the same vampiric things he does, or the audience might be inclined to see as a moral nonentity regardless). His comic id quality becomes somewhat darker and more serious, almost like the way Angel’s early season two darkness becomes more serious after he loses his soul. But at the same time, Spike’s actions are also more intriguing, sympathetic, and even noble...because their object is Buffy. It makes no sense that a soulless vampire should not only fall in love with the Slayer, but genuinely attempt to transform himself into someone worthy of her love. And yet that’s exactly what Buffy inspires him to do. By loving Buffy Spike’s dual nature, and the dual nature of his romanticism, is thrown into relief: it’s something that can be selfish and creepy, yes, but also something that hints at the idea that real romanticism does exist. Something worth feeling romantically about does exist. Thus the writing can at once criticize, say, the way the chivalric mindset conflates love and suffering, while also suggesting that there are kinds of love it’s worth being transformed by. (Meanwhile, Spike’s fumbling bewilderment over how to love Buffy, and what the rules of loving people correctly even are, creates a human middle ground between monstrousness and heroism). By leaning into the way that Buffy and Spike have been used as mirrors for three seasons, and introducing the mythology-bending idea of Spike being in love with Buffy, the writing is able to fully engage with this complicated, contradictory nature of love and romance.

All of which is to say. Spike becomes a potential love interest, and is given a convoluted inner conflict between monstrousness, humanity and heroism, in precisely the season in which Buffy begins to reckon with her own inner conflict between her darker impulses, her human reality, and her supernatural role. It’s no coincidence that season five opens with Dracula, an icon of romantic vampire mythology, tempting Buffy with darkness and promising her insight into her nature. Or that a vampire kidnaps Dawn--again, her human half--in the next episode. Or that the season’s antagonist is a super-strong blonde woman who wants to destroy Dawn instead of protect her. Or that she says goodbye to Riley, the boyfriend who embodied her hopes for a more normative way of being (notice how Riley is progressively destabilized by everything non-normative about Buffy’s life, and provokes those anxieties Buffy expresses in “I Was Made to Love You”). Over and over in season five, Buffy fears that her Slayer half is cold, destructive, and otherwise dangerous. That these Romantic things like gods and vampires have it in for Buffy’s vulnerable humanity. Yet Buffy’s vampire id simultaneously gives lie to these fears by proving itself capable of heroism and genuine human feeling.

In other words, Spike becomes a potential love interest in a season that treats the Romantic--ie the grand and mythical--as something more than just an attractive lie to be disabused of. Rather, the question that season five seems to posit to me, and which will not be fully answered until the end of season seven, is this: once you do clear away the attractive lies, once you accept the hard realities, once you’ve seen the darkest underbellies, what are the things that are left that are truly grand and beautiful? What are the stories that are really worth telling, and the heroes that are really worth having?

And the show asks and answers these questions on both a very personal level, and a more meta, systemic level. On the personal level, Buffy and Spike are forced to confront their illusions not just about the world, but about themselves. They are made to ask themselves what constitutes a heroic role or a demonic weakness, versus basic, unromantic humanity. And on the meta level, the show asks questions about our expectations for how both love stories and chosen hero stories are supposed to go.

part 5: “Everything used to be so clear”: Season six and the agony of the real

#romanticism series #gen #s5 #buffy #spike #riley #btvs

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young-dumb-and-vaccinated · 3 years

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Cult Girl: Doctorate (Hannibal x Pregnant!Female!Reader) pt. 12

Cult girl deals with an unexpected and unwelcome guest.

@wisesandwichshark @pearlstiare

Trigger warnings: pregnancy, emotional manipulation, emotional abuse, infidelity, threats of violence

Step three: kill Anna

So maybe there was an understanding that the pregnancy was to be kept secret from Anna.

The withdrawal of Archie and Max from the picture left a hole in the plan. Just when it looked like you had secured that much-needed victory, it shriveled up and died right before your eyes. That much was certain. Everything else was a big question mark.

Ever since he felt the baby kicking, Hannibal became even more hopelessly enamored with the idea of being a father. He never mentioned it, of course, but it was there. It was there in the way he cooed at your stomach and how his hand lingered after he felt a kick. He was in heaven.

For a few days, it looked like the downward trajectory was beginning to flatten. Then you remembered your favorite line from Ryan Reynolds' Deadpool:

"Life is an endless series of trainwrecks with only brief, commercial-like breaks of happiness." You repeated to yourself as your phone flashed Theresa's call icon.

It took you a minute to remember that Theresa in your phone was actually Anna, because you hadn't bothered to change it. In a way, it was symbolic. Theresa was the head you cut off, and Anna sprouted up in her place. All in the pursuit of making your life unbearable.

You pulled the toothbrush from your mouth and placed it next to the sink. Lazily, you brought the phone to your ear. "What?"

"Hey pretty girl!" Anna said, using her most transparently fake cheery voice. "How's it going?"

Then it clicked. You felt kind of stupid that you didn't see it coming. In the world of cults, this was known as 'lovebombing'; a manipulation tactic in which the cult leader showers their target with affection, compliments, validation or anything that would make them associate good feelings with the group. In any other context, it would be called 'ass-kissing'.

You narrowed your eyes in skepticism. "What do you want?"

"Jeez, who crapped in your corn flakes?" She scoffed. "Can't a girl just call her little sister to say hi?"

It would have been one thing to say 'cousin', which, despite your bad blood, would have been technically accurate. But 'sister' was crossing a line. The blood that binded you and Anna together was thinner than water.

"We're not sisters, Anna." You corrected. "Why are you calling?"

"I just wanted to let you know that all is forgiven." She said, slipping back into that phony cheerful tone. "That little fiasco at the funeral, it's water under the bridge."

What Anna didn't know was that the water under the bridge was never water, but gasoline. Every drop that flowed under that bridge only created a more dangerous blaze for when you finally burned it down.

"Awesome." You said, flatly.

"I also wanted to say, 'may the best woman win'." She jeered. "I don't want to alarm you, but Liam and I have been fucking like bunnies."

You gagged. "I'm not alarmed but I certainly didn't need to know that."

"I've been keeping track of my ovulation," She disregarded your objection and continued the conversation she wanted to have. "And I even put child locks on the computer so Liam can't watch porn. Can't spare even a drop, y'know. It's too crucial."

"I will literally let you have the entire inheritance if you please just shut up right now." You said through gritted teeth.

"Oh?" She perked up. "Come on, don't give up. Don't make it too easy. Winning is just more fun when someone else loses."

She was growing into her Theresa shoes quite well.

"Seriously, though," You raised your eyebrows. "If it means I never have to see you again, by all means. Take the damn money."

"You know I love you, right?" Anna blurted out, pretending to be offended. "You may not think so, but I love you like a sister."

Again, you fought the urge to feel bad for her. Her model of sisterly love was Theresa. She could use the word to invoke sympathy, but would never know what it meant. It hit your ear exactly the same as when fundamentalist christian strangers said they loved you and that's why they were harassing you. Just an empty annoyance.

You rolled your eyes. "Goodbye, Anna."

"Wait!" She shouted as if she was about to die.

You threw your head back in exasperation. "What?!"

"I wanted to give you a little good-luck gift." She said.

You were slightly interested. "Oh?"

"Yes." She answered. "Can I swing by and drop it off later?"

You sighed. "Whatever. As long as you make it fast."

You were most certainly noticeably pregnant, but a fluffy robe obscured any misplaced curves just enough. You just hoped she wouldn't ask why you were wearing a fluffy robe in July. Anna arrived at the house, with Liam, who was holding a small basket of colorful jars and bottles.

You waited a minute to see if she would just leave the basket on the porch, but she didn't. You resignedly opened the door.

"[F/N]!" She shouted with that hyper-enthusiastic smile. You cringed, trying not to let her presence trigger your morning sickness.

The smile disappeared from her face. "Jesus H, you look like hell."

You desperately wanted to inform her that it was the strain of growing a human inside your body, but you held your tongue and thought of an excuse.

"I'm hungover." You said. Yeah, that would work.

"The usual, I see." Anna snipped at you under her breath.

You eyed the basket. You didn't even bother to mask your disappointment when you realized it wasn't food. "What's this?"

"Oh, this?" Anna said as if she were starting a sales pitch. "This is my olive branch. My exclusive DoTERRA fertility rejuvenation kit."

Your brain refused to process that Anna had been sucked in to an MLM, as it was really only a matter of time. You just didn't think it would take this long.

"Dude, you're twenty-nine and I'm twenty-six." You narrowed your eyes at her. "What on earth are we rejuvenating?"

She pointed to a collection of little bottles. "So these are for the initial cleanse. Put a few drops of this in your food, and some of this in your bathwater-"

She rattled on with practiced certainty about the fictitious health benefits of thyme and geranium oils, how they promote fertility and whatnot.

"Thanks, Anna." You cut her off, reaching for the gift basket. You didn't intend to use any of it, but you could pawn it off on some struggling hunbot for less than they would buy it new.

Anna pulled the basket out of your reach. "Oh. I wasn't giving it to you."

Nothing surprised you anymore, and this was no exception. "I thought you said it was a gift?"

"Oh, god no." She shook her head. "This whole kit costs, like, five hundred dollars."

You grimaced. "So you came here to show me your snake oil collection?"

"I came here to tell you in person about this amazing business opportunity." She said, returning to her fake smile. "For just $1000, you can be part of this amazing company-"

"Anna, what am I studying right now?" You cut her off.

She looked at you with round, clueless eyes. She looked back at Liam for help. He tapped his head to give her a hint.

"I want to say..." her voice trailed off. "...brain surgery?"

You shook your head. "No. Liam?"

"Clinical psychology with a specialization in cults." He answered. "You want to be the next Steven Hassan."

Anna didn't deserve Liam.

"So you're saying you're too smart for me?" Anna said, crossing her arms. "You're too busy going to your fancy college, living with your fancy boyfriend to support your own sister's hustle?"

"I'm saying you're in a cult." You countered. "A pretty obvious one, at that."

"Oh, when your only solution is a hammer every problem looks like a nail." She scoffed. "You think everything is a cult. Why can't you just be happy for me?"

"I'll be happy for you when you accomplish something that isn't built off the backs of people you fucked over." You said, allowing yourself to finally snap.

Anna's jaw hung open. "Do I even need to gesture to this house? Those clothes? That degree? All paid for by your rich boyfriend."

It's time.

You stepped on to the porch and shut the door behind you. "Liam. I have something to tell you."

Liam handed the basket off to Anna and approached. "Alright."

"No she doesn't, Liam." Anna objected. "Don't listen to her. You know she's a liar."

"Liam." You said, looking into his eyes. "Do you remember Nathan Sparks?"

"Anna's ex from college?" Liam folded his arms and looked at his wife. "Vaguely."

Anna gritted her teeth at you. "I swear to fucking god, [F/N]-"

"Anna, stop." Liam cut her off. "Let her speak."

"Anna continued to see him for two years after you got together." You smirked.

Liam's dial-up internet brain sputtered to life.

"Oh my god." His mouth hung open. "...is he 'pineapple'?!"

"Nope." You said. "You are."

"Is this true, Anna?" Liam said, in the overlap between denial and anger. "Did you keep seeing Nathan after we got together?"

Anna threw the basket on the ground, jars shattering, releasing a noxious cloud of concentrated snake oil. She was too busy glaring daggers at you to answer her husband.

"Fine. Don't tell me." He spat, turning back to you. "I'll hear it from you, [F/N]. You're the only one in this family who's been honest with me."

"She only wanted to get with you because your uncle is CEO of that publishing house." You added. You felt bad for essentially rubbing salt in the wound, but he was right to assume he wouldn't hear it from anyone else.

He placed his hand over his head as if to nurse a migrane. "How could I be so stupid..."

"Liam-" Anna said, her voice jumping a few octaves.

Liam put up his hand. "I don't want to hear it."

"I'm sorry, Lee." You offered. Even though you loved seeing Anna caught, you felt bad for every person she victimized along the way. Liam was no exception.

He dropped his shoulders and sighed. "Thank you, [F/N]. I'll be out of your way, now. Anna--"

He stopped himself, presumably to avoid saying something he would regret. "...find your own way home."

He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked away, leaving Anna with you.

"Thanks for coming." You sneered at her, feeling around behind you for the door handle. "I'd call an uber if I were you."

"You twisted bitch." She scowled, hands hovering in your direction. "You just get off on ruining people's lives, don't you?"

"Oof, that's some serious projection, Anna." You said, unconsciously untying the belt of your robe and pulling it off your shoulders.

"You're-" She sputtered, her eyes growing to the size of personal pizzas. "You're fucking pregnant?!"

Shit. You thought, cycling through whatever braincells you had left for an idea of how to play this off as if you meant to do it.

"Surprise." You shrugged. Yeah, that would work.

"That's impossible!" She stammered. "You're- you're not even married!"

"Grandma never said anything about marriage." You grinned.

Anna struggled to find her words. "That is unfair!"

"So now that you're not winning, the game is unfair?" You raised an eyebrow.

She pursed her lips and pointed at you. "You aren't going to get away with this."

"Just like you didn't get away with cheating on your husband?" You taunted.

"I'm serious, [F/N]." Anna said, backing down the porch steps. "I will destroy everything you love just like you did to me."

For a half a second, the voice in your head told you to beware, that the threat should be taken seriously. Upon remembering it was coming from Anna, you pushed the thought from your mind.

You shouldn't have.

#hannibal lecter #hannibal x you #hannibal x reader #hannibal nbc #hannibal lecter x reader #hannibal x pregnant reader #pregnancy #baby fever #cult girl #cult girl 2 #cult girl doctorate

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paterson-blue · 3 years

Text

Shadow of the Sea: Chapter 1

Summary: Kylo is used to being alone. It's how he's survived this long, in the cold ocean depths. He can take care of himself. Other creatures--other merfolk--are dangerous; he has the scars to prove it. Humans, however, are the worst of all. But one day, Kylo finds he has no other choice but to turn to one for help. The human he meets is nothing like he expects, and all he knows is he wants more. Is he willing to pay the price?

Word Count: 4,394

Warnings: fem!AFAB!reader, plot set up, kylo ren needs a hug confirmed, non-graphic descriptions of violence & bodily harm, brief mentions of blood & wounds, very vague medical descriptions lol, minor character death (happens off screen), oh but there's also one that happens on screen but it's brief, big time ocean nostalgia from your dear author— let me know if I need to add anything else!

A/N: Thank you @paper-n-ashes for beta reading! Icon behavior tbh.

Prefer AO3? I gotcha!

Kylo prided himself on his independence—his ferocity, his ability to fight his way out of every corner. His body was scarred and battle-hardened, but that didn’t matter. It was proof he was a survivor, and it’s not like he had anyone around him to care about his appearance. Most creatures he saw took one look at his massive form and ran.

He was intimidating, all muscle, his fins torn from previous fights. While his skin was pale, his scales were an onyx color; it made blending into the ocean depths easier. He couldn’t understand why merfolk’s standard of beauty was a brightly colored tail; didn’t it make camouflaging more difficult?

He guessed most merfolk didn’t care about that. They lived in large groups, colorful and cheerful and busy amongst other plant and animal life. Not many delved into the cold, murky areas Kylo had made his home. But he’d been there as long as he could remember, and there was no sense in changing things. He wouldn’t be welcome in the warmer waters anyway. They didn’t want him, and he didn’t want them.

So he kept away, and no one dared bother him. Those that did quickly learned not to. He had killed many creatures, and while it was all in defense, his reputation still preceded him. After all, he’d once fought one of the most dangerous predators the ocean knew, and he’d won.

He’d killed a human, after they’d captured him in their net. He’d overpowered them easily, yanked them from their boat into the water; he hadn’t even flinched when their little fishing knife plunged into his side. He’d watched with a furious gaze as the air left their lungs, their pathetic struggling eventually ceasing. Then he’d calmly cut himself loose from the netting. The knife wound had scarred over, but it was just one more to add to his collection.

Yes, Kylo prided himself on his abilities. He had no fear, no weakness; he never ran from a fight.

He was running now.

He’d been foolish. He should have realized why his normal hunting grounds had been so devoid of fish for the past few days—he should have seen the signs, should have been more careful. But hunger makes you desperate; makes you stupid. He hadn’t been paying attention, too focused on the singular fish he’d found.

It seemed to happen all at once. A sudden blow to his head that left him reeling, pain shooting through his skull as he whips himself around in attempts to find his attacker. A searing burn in his side the exact moment he feels a sharp pinch at the back of his neck. His head starts to spin with confusion, the scent of his own blood in the water.

He spots a figure out of the corner of his eye, and his heart leaps into his throat. It was a human, and they had some sort of weapon pointed right at him.

Kylo doesn’t think—he just bolts. They don’t seem to follow him at first, and he doesn’t understand why until he starts to feel the first symptoms of whatever they’ve injected him with. It makes him dizzy, makes his vision start to blur as a sickening metallic taste fills his mouth.

No, he thinks. I won’t let them do this.

He pulls strength from deep within and pushes himself to swim faster, farther. He hears a muffled shout from behind, and oh, they’re pursuing him now.

He swims frantically, skirting around rocks and through kelp forests, desperately trying to lose them even though he thinks he might hear the dull thrum of a boat motor over the thudding of blood in his ears. Kriff, he was so tired. It would be so easy to let the human magic overtake him, to sink to the ocean floor.

Was this death? A dreamless sleep that crept over your senses until you had no choice but to succumb to it? Kylo doesn’t want to die, not like this. Not where they can get to him, at least.

He doesn’t know where he’s going, doesn’t even know where he is until he catches a quick glimpse of a familiar rock formation. His mind is in shambles, drugged and panicked, lacking oxygen as his gills burn with the strain of his labored breathing.

A cove. Not too far from here. Too shallow for a boat, too rocky for humans. A cave to shelter in. Go, swim, fast, now, now, go.

The voice in his head doesn’t feel like his own—it’s frantic, urgent, thoughtless. Usually he was so composed, controlled. The threat of death had turned him into nothing more than an animal; he’s never felt so small.

He ducks and weaves as he swims towards the hidden cove, trying to convince himself he’s doing it on purpose and not just fading in and out of consciousness. If he can just stay awake a little longer, if he can just make it to that kriffing cave, he can die with dignity. Alone and cold, drugged and bleeding, but away from the humans trying to hurt him.

Kylo nearly loses his speed when he breeches the shallow waters of the cove, his mind wanting to shut down now that he’s made it. He forces himself to keep going despite his nausea and lightheadedness. His lungs are screaming, muscles aching; he scrapes his tail against the rocky outcroppings as he searches frantically for the mouth of the underwater cave.

It’s here, it’s here. I know it’s here, I’ve seen it, I mapped it. Where is it?!

His hands snag against an opening, just barely big enough for him to squeeze through, and he darts into it. It’s a tight fit, and for a brief second Kylo is terrified he’ll get stuck and pass out from whatever the humans hit him with—he’ll die, trapped, never to be found.

But then, quick as a flash, he’s through to the other side. The small tunnel opens up into a larger cavern, protected from the elements and decorated with several pools of varying depths. He’d explored it once, curious, thinking it would be a nice place to hide. It was a little too close to humanity for his comfort, but then again he’d never seen this area very populated. He’d figured he’d keep it in the back of his mind for later.

Turns out later was now.

Kylo pulls himself to the edge of the main and deepest pool, looking around urgently through spotty vision. There was a pool in the corner, half hidden by rocks—it looked shallow, but just deep enough to be submerged. Exhaling fast, he hauls himself up and out of the water, coughing and choking as his body tries to adjust from using his gills to his mouth and nose to breathe. It was never an easy transition, and he hated doing it, but right now it was what he needed.

He growls to himself as he pulls his heavy body along the rough stone cave floor, his normally nimble tail a dead weight. If he wasn’t about to faint, he thinks he’d be a bit more graceful. By the time he rolls unceremoniously into the shallow pool, his palms are all scraped up and bleeding. He doesn’t care; barely feels the sting. He’s not really feeling much of anything at this point, head spinning out of control.

Laying like this on his back, head propped up against the ledge of the pool, Kylo gazes up at the jagged rock ceiling. His lungs crackle as he heaves in breaths, heart still pounding loudly. It’s hard to hear anything else, and he wonders again if his attackers are closing in on him. Does it even matter? His dying mind questions. He doesn’t have an opportunity to think of a retort before his body finally breaks, and he succumbs to the drug induced sleep.

—————————————————————

You wake to the familiar sounds of distant crashing waves, whistling wind, and calls of seagulls. After years on the island, the noise was a comfort.

You’d grown up here, in this same cottage by the sea--been raised fishing, hunting for mussels, searching through tide pools. You and your siblings would bike into town to sell your wares at the local market before heading down to the pier to watch the boats come and go. It was a simple life, sometimes a little isolated, but it was good nonetheless. You loved the island and the ocean, and held great respect for them both. If you honor them, they will honor you--at least, that’s what your mother always said.

Your siblings grew up and moved to the mainland, but still you stayed. Got yourself a little apartment in town above the local grocery, worked at the marina as a clerk, and visited your parents on the weekends. When your mother passed, your father followed just weeks later—a broken heart, everyone said. Suddenly, your beloved little slice of heaven—of home—belonged to you.

So you moved back into the cottage you grew up in, a place haunted by the ghosts of memories and the sounds of the sea. If you’re being honest with yourself, you wouldn’t trade it for the world, no matter how many times you pretend to entertain your siblings’ urging to rent the place out. Think of all the money you’d make. It’s the perfect vacation spot.

Maybe so, but you don’t care. You don’t want strangers in your home—not those tourists who come to fawn over the village, who eat up the landscape with cameras without really seeing it, who gawk at the fishermen, who laugh at the prices at the market. They would probably call your cottage quaint and cute. You could picture them tittering over your family photos on the mantle, over the door frame where heights had been marked over the years.

Tourists, who both long for and pity an isolated life on the ocean. Oh, they have it so easy here, away from the stress of the city. Oh, could you imagine living this way, barely scraping by?

No, you didn’t want them in your home, a place so sacred. You didn’t care what money you were missing out on—you got by fine with your pay from the marina, and picking up shifts at the local cafe. You loved your cottage—savored every creaky floorboard, every leaky windowsill. The drip of the bathroom faucet, the howl of the sea wind through the chimney—these were the sounds of familiarity, of safety. No one would appreciate them like you did.

Twisting around in bed, you turn your gaze towards the open window that was letting in a fresh, salty breeze. It was early, the light still dim and grey, the air a little chilly. It makes you want to curl back up under your covers, catch a couple more hours of shut-eye. It was your day off, after all; you could afford to sleep in.

Except.

You sigh, scrubbing your hands over your face as you remember what your yesterday brain had planned. You’d told yourself you’d get up in order to gather mussels at low tide. There were plenty of tide pools around, especially in the caved area of the cove. It was your family’s little secret—the hidden grotto was all but invisible from the outside. The only reason you even knew about it was because your brother had been too adventurous for his own good as a child, always getting into places he shouldn’t.

Mussels, clams, seaweed, probably fish in the deeper tide pools—maybe some sea urchin you could sell at the market. Your stomach growls.

Well, that’s that.

Groaning, you haul yourself up and out of bed, wincing at the cold hardwood on your bare feet. You bounce on your toes, shivering, goosebumps appearing on your skin as you pad over to close the window. Despite growing up here, you were always surprised at the temperature. You stubbornly let in the breeze at night, all bundled up under your covers, pretending when you woke it would be nice and warm.

But nope, not here; even in the dead of summer the mornings were chilly. Sometimes you dreamed that you lived on one of those big, luxurious, heated beaches—hot sun and white sand as far as the eye could see, no craggy cliffs or rocky shores. Eh. You probably wouldn’t like it much anyway, too used to your own environment.

Glancing at the clock, you quickly throw on some warm clothes, half-assing your regular morning routine before grabbing your tide-pool hunting essentials: a flashlight, knee-high waders, a large bucket, and your trusty fishing knife. You take a deep breath at the front door, bracing yourself for the chill. Just think of the feast you’ll have later. And you can reward yourself with a hot bath and long nap.

It’s not too long a distance from the cottage to the rocky shoreline, and while the low tide has revealed the tempting sand leading towards the rolling waves, you head towards the jagged outcropping to the left. Years of following the same path means it doesn’t take you long at all to find the hidden entrance and carefully make your way into the cavern.

In the middle of a sunny day, light shone in through various cracks in the ceiling, glinting off the water and creating flickering reflections against the stone walls. Sometimes you came here just to think, or to take a dip in the largest pool. The water was always warmer here, protected from the full power of the currents by the rock face.

Now, however, it was dark—only the dimmest bit of grey morning light trickled in. You flick on the flashlight, humming softly to yourself. The melody echoes off the stone walls, and you set your bucket down at the closest tide pool, readying yourself to hunker down and get to work. The beam of the light scans the various pools as you turn to get your knife from its holder, and something catches your eye. It’s not much, and honestly if you weren’t so familiar with the cave you probably wouldn’t have noticed the dark shape in the far corner pool.

At first, you do a double take, eyes sweeping over the little red-tinged puddles on the floor. Blood. You grip your knife, mind racing with possibilities. Was there someone in here with you? Surely not. No one ever came out here. Swallowing hard, you take a couple steps towards the corner, torch in one hand and knife in the other. As you get closer, your gaze tracks the diluted blood trail into the pool, and at first all you notice is the black scales and fins of a fish. The grip on your knife loosens just a little, the fear of a possible threat fading.

It's a big animal, you can tell that even as you make your way over, and you wonder idly how it got in. You knew, logically, that the cave connected to the ocean somehow, but you can't imagine the tide being so high for a fish as large as this one to find its way into the back corner. You’re focused on this conundrum as you round the ledge that’s been shielding the animal from your full view--so much so that it takes you more than a couple moments for your mind to compute just what it's seeing.

The tail is thick and muscular, decorated in obsidian scales that lead to delicate looking fins at the bottom. There were smaller, fan looking fins on the sides of the tail--they were all ripped up, as if they had been torn in previous fights. Your brain clocks all of this in seconds but doesn’t dwell, because it’s focused on the top half of the animal--creature--merman.

Merman. A fucking merman.

The ebony scales at the waist fade seamlessly into pale skin and lean muscle, revealing a long, firm torso. If you weren’t so aware of the tail, you might--might--think he could pass for human. Well, except for the webbed fingers and razor-sharp nails adorning each of his hands. He’s half submerged in the water of the pool, dark hair covering part of his face so you can’t see it.

You stand there, frozen, staring, not quite knowing what to do. You weren’t… scared; weren’t even very surprised aside from the initial shock of seeing him. You’d grown up hearing stories, traditions, tales—it was more than folklore here on the island. Some of the elders believed in merfolk more than ghosts, more than aliens, more than god.

Mr. Mackenzie told tales of mermaids luring in his shipmates as prey, drowning them. You always thought they were just stories designed to scare children away from dangerous tides—and maybe they were. But other accounts, you weren’t so sure of.

It was the wonder on Ms. Fraser’s face when she recounted the long-ago memory of swimming along sandbars with a girl who could breathe underwater. It was the quiet reverence of Mr. McDougall’s voice when he whispered about removing an old fish hook from a merman’s tail. It was the tears in Mrs. Buchanan’s eyes when she insisted merfolk rescued her husband from a fishing boat wreck.

You believed them. You always had, even if you’d done it silently, bashfully. You knew those who still made offerings to the ocean and to the beings that dwelled within the depths. Your island community believed in things not seen, but passed down through generations of storytelling. It was your history, kept alive despite first hand encounters becoming few and far between.

Except, here it was—your own little slice of history, right in front of you. If you took a couple more steps, you could reach out and touch it.

Is he breathing?

The little voice in your head brings you back down to your body, and a sudden fear overtakes you. You can’t let him die—if he was even still alive to begin with. You glance nervously at the pinkish trail of blood leading to the pool; the sight makes you reach some sort of resolve.

Hyper-aware of the claws on his hands, you kneel down beside him, hesitating only briefly before you settle your hand on his large bicep. He doesn’t stir, and your stomach twists unpleasantly. Your hand slides down to his wrist, and while you can admit you aren’t an expert on merfolk anatomy, surely you’ll be able to feel a pulse from the spidery blue veins under his pale skin.

Relief washes over you in a wave when you do, indeed, find a pulse—slow, but strong. Okay, not dead then. Still, he doesn’t move, so you take it upon yourself to move his damp hair out of his face, curling it behind his prominent ears.

He’s handsome.

You feel yourself flush, immediately chastising yourself for the thought. This was—best case scenario—a complete stranger who was wounded and in possible danger. Worst case scenario… you didn’t want to think about. Needless to say, it was no time to be thinking about his level of attractiveness.

You force yourself back into action, cupping his head as you hold your hand under his nose. His breathing is steady, and you gently lay his head back where it rested on the rock ledge. Your fingertips brush against something, and you frown as you realize he has a lump on the back of his skull—as if he’s been hit. You can only hope it hasn’t done too serious damage; it wasn’t like you could really take him to the hospital.

Your attention moves down his body, and you make yourself bypass the gills in his neck in order to properly gauge his wounds. Minor cuts and scrapes littered his skin; from the number of scars decorating his form, you figure these aren’t a big deal, no matter how nasty they look. Not compared to the gash on his side, at least.

You wince when you see it, the delicate flesh torn open and ragged. The cut makes you think it’s from some man-made weapon, and you shake your head in disbelief. Who would want to harm a merman? Around here, it would be blasphemous to do such a thing.

Blood no longer seeps from the wound; you hope that’s a good sign—and that the salt water has somewhat cleaned the area. You think it may have needed stitches, but you’re no doctor with the ability to do such a procedure. If you're being honest with yourself, it’s probably far too late for stitches anyway. The wound would be another nasty scar, likely similar to the one marring his face, but the area isn’t red with infection. That’s a good sign, right?

You sigh, feeling helpless. You want to do something for the creature. There’s only one thing you can really think of. Chewing on your bottom lip, you study his face again. He still seems unresponsive, and you can only hope he stays that way a little longer.

The short trek back up to your home feels the longest it’s ever been, and your legs and lungs are burning by the time you rush through the front door, having run the entire way. You heave in breaths as you pack some supplies into a bag. It wasn’t much, but you should be able to use the waterproof gauze and antibiotic ointment to dress the nasty-looking scrapes on his hands and chest.

You hesitate for a moment before going into your bathroom and grabbing the waterproof pillow you had in the tub. Maybe it was silly, but you hated thinking about him lying on the hard ground for fuck knows how long. You almost grab some food for him—maybe the fish currently thawing in your fridge—but you decide not to. You weren’t sure what he ate, and there was no telling when he’d wake up anyway.

Your breathing has just settled back to normal by the time you’re jogging back to the cave, careful not to slip on any of the wet grass and rocks. The sun starts to peak out of the morning clouds, letting pale beams of light warm the grey morning. The cavern is illuminated slightly better when you enter; you find you can lay the flashlight at a distance and see just fine.

The merman is still asleep, and you feel a little relieved. You aren’t exactly sure what will happen when he wakes up—for all you know, you’ll return later in the day to find him gone. As it is, you plop down next to the pool he was in and get to work patching him up the best you can.

Taking the towel you brought with you, you dab at his scrapes, trying to dry them a little before applying the ointment and then carefully using the gauze to cover the wounds. His palms are so torn up that you wrap them completely, your brows knitted the entire time. It must hurt, but still, he doesn’t stir.

Finally, you’re left with the gash in his side. You debate with yourself as to whether you should cover it or not—if you even can. The front of his torso was out of the water with the way he was laying, but that could change at any second, and any real pressure on his body would cause him to sink into the pool.

Your urge to help him wins out in the end, and you decide you’ll try to bandage it to protect it from any further irritation, despite knowing water would seep in regardless. You lean forward, extra careful not to lose your balance as you pat at his pale skin with the towel once more. It’s an awkward angle and slow work, you trying your best to be gentle with him.

You add as much ointment as you dare to the bandaging, not wanting to put too much onto an open wound, before fixing the gauze to his torso with some waterproof medical tape. There. Sure, it wasn’t going to work a miracle but at this point you weren’t sure what else to do.

He’ll be okay, you tell yourself. He’ll be okay.

You take a moment to watch the rise and fall of his chest, reassured by the movement. Your gaze again drifts to his tail in fascination—you hope that, maybe, you’ll come back later and he’ll be awake. Maybe he’ll be friendly, maybe the two of you can talk. It’s illogical, you know. This wasn’t some fairytale, this was real life. You honestly just hoped he didn’t try to rip you to shreds on sight.

It’s with this thought in mind that you shift away from him, telling yourself you can’t sit and watch him all day. You have several other pools to collect mussels from, breakfast to cook, chores to do. You’ve done enough, and you have to trust that his body will do the rest—you refuse to entertain the idea that he might not make it.

Sighing, you pull yourself further away, but then remember the pillow you’d brought along. You grab it quickly before shuffling back towards him. He’s got a large lump of seaweed shoved haphazardly under his head in what you assume was a desperate attempt to soften the rock face underneath.

His damp hair is surprisingly soft when you gently lift his head to clear the ground of debris. You can’t help but run your fingers through it gently, brushing it behind his ears, almost trying to soothe his subconscious. You settle the small foam pillow in place, and slowly let his head and neck rest against it. You hope it makes some sort of difference, though you know it might be a childish thought.

Your task finished, you force yourself away from him once more, even though you suddenly ache to continue touching him. Picking up your things, you continue on your mission of prying mussels from each tidepool. You move slower and quieter than you normally would, shooting the merman furtive glances every few seconds.

By the time you’re finished with the last pool, you can’t find an excuse to linger any longer. He was as safe as he was going to be. The only thing left to do now was wait. You spare your new charge one last lingering look, then grab your things and head back to the house.

______________________________________________________________

taglist friends!

@leatherboundbirate @fathersonandhouseofgucci @paper-n-ashes @direnightshade @jynzandtonic @glassbxttless @barbers-glimmerin-darlin @hopeamarsu @mariesackler @millenialcatlady @sacklerscumrag @peachyproserpina @cornmousequeen @eagerforhoney @icarusinthesea @heartofjakku

#kylo ren x reader #kylo ren x fem!reader #kylo ren x afab!reader #kylo ren #kylo ren fic #merman!kylo #merman au #multi chapter #tori writes #feedback always welcome & appreciated!

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poohkeepsee · 3 years

Text

I was going through my AO3 bookmarks, and I wanted to organize them a little bit. These are my Dean/Cas canon-ish fic recs.

season 5

canticles by 2street2car Words: 10,311 Chapters: 1

“But you know something? If I couldn’t get you laid, at least I gave you a good first date.”feat: footsies at a Ruby Tuesday, stargazing, the recreation of an iconic "Dirty Dancing" scene (no, not that one—the other one), and practicing for When You're With A Girl.

FTBYAM MY BELOVED

post season 6

Someone Who's Feeling For Me by ellispark Words: 45,876 Chapters: 1

Dean sees her for the first time in nearly six years in some no-name town in Idaho, and it's panic at first sight.

Lisa Braeden, the one woman Dean ever actually had a shot at a real life with, back from where he buried her in his mind. And her hand is on Cas's arm like it's no big deal, like it belongs there. Cas, Dean's dorky, sweet, badass, angelic best friend, and he's just standing there next to Lisa and not moving her hand away.

Dean feels the jealousy rising, and it's not directed where he expected it to be. Because it takes this exact moment for Dean to realize he's in love with his best friend. He's in love with his best friend, and Lisa is looking at Cas like he's the best thing since automatic rifles, and Dean is utterly fucked.

post bunker

Sun Can't Set Until Nine by LeverDrift Words: 67,939 Chapters: 16

Cas moves into the bunker as his powers start to fail. Dean doesn’t know if the arrangement is as permanent as he wants it to be. He's also not sure why he keeps dreaming about his friend. All he knows is that he wants Cas to stay. Overall warnings: canon-typical miscommunication & Dean having self-hatred issues.

Life Skills by ilovehowyouletmefall Words: 26,052 Chapters: 3

After Metatron steals Castiel's grace, and Cas comes to live in the bunker, Dean spends a lot of time with him, sharing all of his favourite things. Dean can't help it if sharing things with Cas just makes everything better. Besides, it's Dean's job as Cas' friend to introduce him to the joys of human life. To teach him how to be human. And if one of the experiences they end up sharing is sex with women, well... that's just part of Dean's job as Cas' friend too, right? The desire is triangulated, the rituals are intricate.

Sam Stole My Boyfriend by sobsicles Words: 8,445 Chapters: 1

“Dude, you’ve been staring at me a lot lately, like even enough that Sam noticed. More than usual. So, like, what’s up?” Dean pauses, purses his lips and reconsiders. “What did I do?”

Cas knows that would be a perfect time to confess to Dean what exactly happened and what he was thinking. Maybe, Dean had some insight into the situation or even some kind of comfort to offer. But, the longer that he sat there, he realized that he could not tell Dean absolutely anything. So instead, for the first time, Cas fumbled.

“Um,” Cas mutters and abruptly stands. “Freckles?”

Dean blinked up at him as Cas pivoted and left the room. There was only one remaining option he had and unfortunately, it involved Sam.

Aching in the Absence of You by sobsicles Words: 95,090 Chapters: 10

Brittle and battle-worn, Cas looks at him over coffee one morning and says, "I need to go," and Dean instantly knows that he's not coming back.

He's not really sure how he knows it, but he does. It settles into the pit of his stomach, curling hot and tight like something he instinctively wants to tear out with his bare hands. He takes a breath, and it gets stuck in his throat, hitching there. It hurts, hurts, hurts when he finally exhales.

"Yeah," Dean says, "of course you do," and he nods jerkily as he looks down at his phone. He doesn't say goodbye. He doesn't look up from the screen when Cas gets up and leaves the room. He doesn't finish his coffee, or move for a long time.

By nightfall, Cas is gone.

'Communication' by JustAnotherSamlicker Words: 11,656

The same story told from two perspectives.

Dean bought a house and he and Cas fix it up.

Is Dean moving out? Is Cas moving in?

Should they just talk to each other already? (Yes they should)

Build a Home by domesticadventures Words: 20,102

After they save the world, Dean expects Cas to come back to the bunker with them.

He doesn't

season 10

The Most Important Thing by NorthernSparrow Words: 94,462 Chapters: 14

Jimmy Novak remembers nothing of the last six years. Reunited with his troubled daughter Claire, he's struggling to raise her on his own. The most important thing is to make Claire happy. But why does he keep having these dreams of wings, and of two men in a black car? (Canon-divergent from S10E11, when we first met Claire again and Dean was still struggling with the Mark of Cain. Takes places several months later).

season 12

Heroes for Ghosts by pantheon_of_discord Words: 42,922 Chapters: 7

Canon-divergent from 12.08

After Sam and Dean are arrested, Castiel is left alone and scrambling to find them. He knows they’re locked away in a government facility, and he’s still able to hear their prayers, but no matter how he tries Castiel can’t seem to track them. He chases leads and even attempts to hunt on his own, but Mary is AWOL, Crowley refuses to help, and Castiel’s options are running out.

Weeks pass, Castiel’s hope dwindles, and through it all Dean prays, keeping them connected. His voice is comforting, frustrating, and occasionally annoying, but in his solitude Castiel comes to cherish it. But then one day, without warning, Dean stops praying, and Castiel is forced to confront some uncomfortable truths about his feelings.

season 13

i want to do with you (what spring does with cherry trees) by sobsicles Words: 74,173 Chapters: 8

Dean keeps going back.

When he arrives, it's always to blooming flowers and a windmill in the background, not too far from a brook, the sun painting the plains.

He likes it there. He likes to stand in front of the makeshift urn and check that it's still where he put it, switching out the flowers when they wilt. He likes to listen to the sound of birds chirping, insects singing, the faint sound of water trickling in the distance. He likes to turn his face up and feel the sun on his skin, wondering if Cas would do the same if he were here, somehow knowing that he would.

He likes to talk.

There's never a response, but Dean feels the breeze rustle through his hair and watches the flowers bob when bees come to them and stares as the windmill keeps turning, turning, turning. And he imagines that Cas is replying—the windmill is the tilted head, the bobbing flowers are a gentle smile, the breeze is whatever words Dean wants to hear at the time.

Sometimes, it's almost like he's there.

Trial and Tribulations of Raising a Nephilim by Sickandtiredofyou Words: 14,910 Chapters: 6

Dean has far too much on his plate, losing his mom, his best friend and now being a single parent to a newborn nephilim.

In which Jack is an actual newborn instead of a teenager.

post season 13

dumbassery, denial, doing (the three d's to the destination) by sobsicles Words: 108,427 Chapters: 4

Freedom is just one adjustment after the next.

Cas hums again. "I think you already have. It's been months since everything settled. All that's left to do is...get used to it, and perhaps—" His voice stalls out, uncharacteristically, and his gaze roams Dean's face with intensity. When he speaks next, his tone is a little raw. "Perhaps what one does with peace is...whatever they want."

"What if I don't even know what that is?" Dean grumbles, arching an eyebrow in challenge. "'Cause I know damn well you don't just mean good food and a good bed and time in Baby, not simple wants like that. You mean—ya know, the big things, the wants we didn't get to have before."

"Yes," Cas agrees. "If you're not sure, figure it out."

"Easier said than done."

Reasons to read this:

Dean reads a story that ends like despair and his reaction is FUCK THAT

Cas wears Dean's hoodie

Jack is a toddler

The Jack and Claire sibling energy we deserve

Eileen being awesome and pulling pranks with Dean while Sam thinks she's an angel

Sam knows

YOUR HONOR THEY'RE IN LOVE

First Date by aeli_kindara Words: 8,968 Chapters: 1

“We should go on a date. You and me.”

Castiel wishes he could see Dean’s face. He wishes he had any idea what to say.

“I’m asking you out, Cas.”

Also known as the Dean Winchester makes the first move fic.

season 14

Broken Road by thegeminisage Words: 109,629 Chapters: 7

A 14.13 Lebanon rewrite. When Dean uses a wish-granting pearl to try and kill the archangel Michael before he can escape the cage in Dean's head, they instead wind up with a newly-resurrected John Winchester.

It's been more than a decade since John died, and a lot has changed: Mary is alive, Sam and Dean have what passes for a proper home in the Men of Letters Bunker, and they're living with angels. John doesn't know angels are real, he doesn't know about the fragile new relationship between Dean and Castiel, and most of all, he doesn't know that Dean said yes to Michael, or that Dean's plan to defeat Michael would send him to a fate worse than death.

Now Dean must contend with both his father asking questions he can't answer, and his loved ones learning about the darker truths of his childhood, all while constantly battling the archangel trapped inside him. But Dean coming to terms with his history may be the difference between this being the beginning of a journey—or the end.

post season 15

fools and pilgrims by lagaudiere Words: 31,904 Chapters: 2

Claire shows up at the bunker a day before Dean was planning to leave, with her hair cut short and a fresh tattoo on her left arm under a bandage. Chuck is dead, Jack has given up his godlike powers, and Cas is back from the Empty, which doesn't make it any easier for Dean to talk to him. Suddenly finding himself in a world without monsters, supernatural forces, or any need for hunters, Dean's solution is to go on a road trip. Claire tags along.

Dean-Claire mirror fic post Despair

what's missing is found (our souls can exhale now) by sobsicles Words: 27,403

It's not the first time Claire has ever gone missing. It is, however, the first time Kaia panics about it. Dean's dragged into the mess, but he soon finds that it's the best thing that could have happened to him.

canon(?) au (Hunters and Men of Letters)

Dean Winchester's Secret (Angel) Boyfriend by reluctantabandon, Winter_of_our_Discontent Words: 11,191 Chapters: 1

Dean Winchester isn't exactly a team player. So when he starts mentioning a new Hunting partner, Ellen and Jo Harvelle aren't sure whether they should be worried or relieved.

But they're starting to get the feeling there's something important Dean's not telling them about Cas...

Shot Through The Heart by peanutbutterjelly-pie (Aleakim) Words: 11,191 Chapters: 1

Dean is a hunter.

Castiel is a Man of Letters.

And even though they have to work together on a regular basis, there is not much sympathy between them. Castiel thinks Dean too brash and reckless while Dean in return sees nothing more in the other man than a rude asshole with an obsessive love for books and a truly terrible fashion sense.

But fate clearly has a funny way of throwing those two together over and over again.

And somewhere along the way feelings change into something neither of them would have expected.

#destiel #deancas #fic recs

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stupid-stew · 3 years

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i took notes on the art stream dana did tonight in my own way, yes this is also what my school notes look like so my formal apologies

dana didn’t have many friends or anything in college (self defined recluse)

king is the hardest character to draw due to his specific skull shape

dana loves pokemon and the king resemblance is a coincidence, and she drew everyone to be RIPPED

XENA THE WARRIOR PRINCESS WITH THE ABS LMAOOOO

young entrepreneur out here art queen getting that bag WHY WAS SHE MAKING SHIP ART OF HER CLASSMATES FOR MONEY AT THE AGE OF LIKE 11 IM SOBBING

king ruined the sand castle :(

the mcdonald’s coffe, it sucks apparently

insomnia dana supremacy, felt that

DANA WINS ROUND 1 (against her will)

side note i think i need to start watching more anime, that’s just for me the remember tho

“let’s get weird”- dana terrace 2021

“give us the most uncomfortable furby suggestions please”- also dana terrace 2021

FANFICTION JOURNALS CAN WE GET THOSE PUBLISHED

hard time communicating outside of drawings (one of us 👹)

toh is script driven, sicknasty

her test was turned away SPILL THE TEA

dana proposes to furby suggestion giving chat member

8months struggling for job

turned away from power puff girls boooo

“i called up a friend and we had a drink and i cried :(“ -dana

FURBY WITH HUMAN ANATOMY

YES YES YES MITCHELLS YES YES YES YES YES YES YES

the director had to fight to make the furby scene happen and sir we appreciate it

“androgyny is beautiful”- dana, about a furby

yes girl let jesus take the wheel on that anatomically correct furby

WHY WAS SHE TRYIKG TO TEACH HER FURBY DO CURSE THATS SO FUNNY

“fuck you! fuck you!”- not dana’s furby

$80,000 in debt for this

“shit shit fuck shit”

“as good friends, as disney would say”

dana trying not to lose her job

“AH GOD NO THE FEET THE FEET”

straight black coffee you psycho

DANA LOOSES TO THE CURSED FURBY

HAHAHA TINY NOSE IN THE SIGIL

cannot cook, girlboss, win dana with food

CATBOY SHREK

catchphrase? “AAAAAAAHHH”

scared of spiders

do not wake the cat

“is that a pile of garbage or is that ur self esteem after i fucking demolish you”

-dana terrace 2021

the iconic “byeeeee” was difficult

why can’t she draw shrek

“i need validation please jesus christ”

-dana terrace 2021

someone buy this woman the cat gamer headphones alex hurry up

she does not like the booth but she does it for us thank you queen

dana fainted getting a stick n poke rip

AWWW SHE GOT STEVE BLOOM THATS SO CUTE FOR HER

SHE DISLIKES FANTASY???? BOI WHAT THE HELL BOI

at least she’s having a good time making her own gross little fantasy land, improvise adapt overcome

dana unlocks the idea of things being done in different ways and have them all be good for the masses

“limitation breeds invention”

“wow ur really wise dana”

“….thanks dawg”

“well i didn’t have friends… no one laughed.”

i want the little comics of her pets

cat person dana

DANA WINS CATBOY SHREK

awww little stick and poke on her ankle

does not celebrate her birthday

OOOH THE HAMMERHEAD IS HER FIRST ONE I LOVE THAT ONE

#mood bunny

KERMIT ON STEROIDS

“how can we make this weird” GIRL IT IS KERMIT ON S T E R O I D S

HER LITTLE LAUGH IM SOBBING

this is literally psychological warfare

dana has not watched the muppets but she knows him drinking the tea so winning

DANA THE ANGST QUEEN LMAO

she’s proud about her making dipper and mable fight

DANA ANIMATED FOR NEXT WEEK MARK UR FREAKING CALENDARS

hooty is the owl house canon?

i wish the owl house was like a creature that would have been so funny

CAT APPEARS

season 2 is outline heavy when it comes to the writing

dana knows what she wants for season 2 and we love that

execs up the wall on season 1

DANA LOSES MUSCLE KERMIT

dana has not found the character porn! keep it up girl! stay over there!

oooh bike queen

SWING DANCE OH MY GOD

TAP DANCING

THIS WOMAN IS AN ICON I LOVE HERRRR

yes get that energy out girl

ddr stan, loses to matt braly at gravity falls team bowling hang out

cat is sad :( give her a snack :(

AWW GHOST HAS ASTHMA omg kinnie moment

conspiracy theory enthusiast when intoxicated

vaccination queen

does not believe in ghosts, kill me girl i’ll haunt you don’t worry i’ll prove it

DOG WORKING IN A CAFE

“the ow house get ready to get some boo boo”- this other guy because it made me cry

“you’re gonna have to pay me to write shit because i don’t work for free”

not a music person

DO A FLIP

dana do a flip for charity please i’ll donate like an organ or something

she can canonically do a flip and she’s not gonna show us this is homophobic

AH FUCK MY STREAM CUT OUT

her neighbor is parking yes get it

draw left hand

while holding pen wack

do it in online version of ms paint

“MS pain”- dana not finishing her word

and stick and poke

show us the work stuff dana >:(

an ARTIST

“he’s a strong independent dog”

“4 minutes 20 seconds 😏 h e h e h e”

WHY CANT WE SEE HER HEADBANG THIS IS SO RUDE

not the muscle pulling girl not now

“also dog”

CHAMPION DANA

IMAGINE DANA CALLING UR ART CUTE

H E L P THE FURBYS I CSNOT

ghost gets rejected

“he’s not impressed with ur bullshit”

catra shrek fan girl moment

dana has probably done drugs

“i am a fan of waluigi”

AN ITALIAN POLITICIAN SMACK TALKING THE OWL HOUSE LMAOSJB

note to self dana will only marry you if you look like kermit the frog

also dog comes from a land where dogs eat people at starbucks

LOWES AD

“he’s making out with it! he’s using tongue!”

there are bouncers in cafes where also dog comes from

dana has worked the cash register

someone make real witch merchandise

Q AND A YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES

hooty is he has a very he has more he has a backstory it exists it’s written out but we might not ever get it because it’s just for her dana please i am on my knees

would play dnd if she could

favorite episodes haven’t even aired but currently is echoes of the past or keeping up a fear ances because they’re personal especially a fear ances

TOO LATE FOR EXTENDED SEASON THREE BOARDING HAS STARTED IM GOING TO CRY

SPIN-OFFS SHORTS AND COMICS STILL ALLOWED IM LITERALLY DEAD ON THE INSIDE

mentally she is thriving with the show and it’s going to end well 🙏

“it’s just my voice :(“

BYEEEEEEE

#the owl house #dana terrace

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salmonid-ink · 4 years

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Let’s talk about Salmonid intelligence!

There seems to be a wide misconception that Salmonids aren’t intelligent, or at the very least, aren’t as smart as Octolings or Inklings. This idea couldn’t be farther from the truth! And because I’m the Resident Salmonid Fanatic™ it’s my job to talk about this.

In hopes to make people consider and think of Salmonids in a better light, and NOT as pets, I’m going to do my best to pull evidence from in-game, as well as interviews, that imply or outright confirm that Salmonids are sapient, much like our beloved Octolings and Inklings.

To start, I’d like to touch on their interactions with other creatures, namely their trade deal with the Octarians. It’s hard to argue for Salmonids not being intelligent when you consider the confirmed fact that they actively trade with other creatures to benefit the both of them.

They exchange their useful Power Eggs (and perhaps vegetables and fruits) to the Octarians for mechanical blueprints, weapons, and machine parts (and potentially tentacle cuts for food). We can wager this trade deal has been going on for a long time, as the Salmonids are fitted to the gills with machinery, and you can make the argument that the Octomaw was inspired by Maws!

While the Salmonids could easily take these blueprints and make the machines exactly as the Octarians planned them, these fish take it one step beyond and put their own twist on things! With their intellect, they’ve customized traditional weapons to suit them better, and the examples can be seen in just about every boss you encounter.

Ink Storm + Brella -> Drizzler

Sting Ray -> Stinger

Ink Jet + Tenta Missiles -> Flyfish

Splash Wall -> Steel Eel

Baller/Splashdown -> Steelhead

Shielded Octotrooper + Roller -> Scrapper

Octocopter -> Chinook

Flooder -> Griller

Octo Seeker -> Mothership

Additionally, they are INSANELY resourceful, able to use any scrap of metal or machinery to make their contraptions, and make them decently reliable. Not to mention the fact that Scrappers are able to repair their cars! On the fly! All while under fire! That takes dedication AND smarts!!

Not to mention the fact that Smallfry, who could very well be babies (and I will argue that they are, as there is no benefit to stunting the growth of ANY creature), are able to pilot Flyfish. They were raised just right in the best environment, and now they’re super smart!

Also, Salmonids are crazy creative, with how they’ve incorporated their cookware into their weaponry. They take their aesthetic to the next level, man.

Next, lest talk about their homes!

It’s vastly clear that they have their own society. At the very least, we can take a glimpse of it with their houses. The Lost Outpost (known as the Colony at Sea in Japan) is a great example of this!

While these houses look like they were cobbled together with recycled parts, which falls in line with Salmonid resourcefulness, they are clearly stable living spaces that were built by he Salmonids themselves with ocean living and fishing in mind.

Additionally, towards the back of the stage, we can see another house with a city on the horizon. While this is purely speculation, I don’t think it’s too much of a stretch to believe that this city is Salmonid-owned. The areas you go to are claimed to be restricted ocean zones, and given that you’re so far out that you need a house-sized radio dish just to communicate, it’s hard to believe that the city would be owned by anyone else.

I think these city-based homes would be owned by Salmonids that work with machinery, such as repairmen and mechanics. This could also include artisans! Farmers would obviously live in more rural areas, where they can plant and grow their crops.

We can also glean a similar idea from the Spawning Grounds (called the Salmonid Dam in many other languages):

I will argue until the day I die that the dam found in the Spawning Grounds, as well as the adjacent city, belongs to the Salmonids, as evidence by its proximity to the stage, the green water pouring from the dam, and the very clear Salmonid mark on it.

Whether this city was built by them, or it’s one they took ahold of and built upon during one of their past migrations is yet to be determined, seeing my speculations are even true. Either way, it’s clear that the Salmonids are capable of building structures and homes with ease!

If we talk about their homes, even if this is much more on the speculative end, we’ve also GOT to talk about the factory we can see at Marooner’s Bay:

Again, given the proximity to Salmonid territory, as well as the various Salmonid-themed items around the stage, we can speculate that these factories are Salmonid owned, and perhaps where they work on many of their machines and devices.

Things such as Scrapper Cars, Steel Eels, Flyfish jets, Grillers, and Motherships could be constructed here, or this place could be used for processing water or chemicals! It’s a rather vague factory, so again, this is all theoretical. I haven’t a clue what they do here.

Next let’s talk about their art. The existence of art alone should be enough of an indicator that they have minds to think and feel with! Especially when their designs are as intricate as these:

The most of these can be seen around the Lost Outpost and Spawning Grounds, but every single stage has a few of these markings floating around. I don’t currently have many in-stage caps on hand, but if you take the time to look around, you’ll find a few on the ground and walls!

While a lot of these are very clearly graffiti markings, the intricate designs may have some meaning. While we haven’t a clue what exactly they mean, or what they represent, I think they’re extremely fascinating, and give us a peek into what culture Salmonids have.

They’re likely made with stencils, but all the same, they were designed carefully, and must hold SOME significance.

I have a theory that these designs are primarily to mark specific territories. Perhaps certain marks mean different schools and families! Or some of them could be warnings, such as to indicate Grizz activity (such as with the bear icon, which appears in a few stages).

I believe in part, these are a form of expression, ESPECIALLY if they indicate schools. There are so many unique fish-shaped designs, it’d be cool to see how these correlate to individual groups!

They could also be a visual indicator for Inklings and Cephalopods that, yes, this is Salmonid territory, so you’d best stay away! Because while it’d be easy for a Salmonid to tell what area belongs to who by smell alone, Inklings certainly don’t have that luxury!

At any rate, I’d love to see what personal art looks like for Salmonids. What kind of crafts do they make? What sort of things do they love to paint? We don’t really know, and we can only speculate...

One thing we know for certain is that Salmonids appreciate music. It even seems as though they’re inspired by it, given the descriptions that the Salmon Run songs have.

I feel like this is worth stating, even if their existence is fairly common knowledge: ω-3. A band. That plays complex instruments. And does all their own mixing.

Pretty freakin’ smart, I must say!

Additionally, each of the members have VASTLY different styles. The Cellist is stern and stubborn, and won’t accept anything but the best, be it in passion or in radical works. The timpanist is soulful, passionate, and is straight to the point. The DJ is reckless and disrespectful, yet puts forth his best effort.

All three of them are so unalike to one another in style and personality. They may not even get along that well, but at the end of the day, they value working together SO MUCH that they make amazing, unique, and great-sounding songs that stir and inspire their people.

It’d be amazing to see what other types of music that Salmonids like, because this can’t be the only kind. However the style of ω-3 certainly goes hand-in-hand with the chaotic, resourceful, and determined nature of the Salmonids.

We should also touch up on the fact that Salmonids are stated to have tradition. Aside from their 70-year migration, they’re also stated to pass cookware from generation to generation in Sunken Scroll #19.

"Salmonids are known to keep their weapons in tip-top shape. The frying pans they wield have often been passed down from generation to generation. You can see the unwavering pride of these fierce warriors in their (somewhat crazed) eyes."

I like to think that they also pass things like recipes and other tools down to their offspring and kin. Family and schools on the whole appear to be very important to them, which ties directly into their drive to work together as a unit, rather than separately as a makeshift team.

For some conventional evidence, look at this one bit from the Merry Fishmas piece, posted by official Splatoon sources:

I LOVE this image, and there are so many tiny details that you can make out in this. Such as these two:

THEY ARE PLAYING CARDS, and this ain’t no dogs playing poker bit, either! It looks like the other one is losing really bad... Or going into a food coma. One way or another, the other Salmonid is trying to check up on them, haha. Or maybe they’re trying to sneak a peek at the other’s cards? Who knows! That sly grin tells a story.

Also, there’s this Goldie, who is fishing:

These are all pretty human-like characteristics, which makes me think, all the more, that they’re on par with Inklings intelligence wise. I REALLY want to see more interactions like this someday, it fills my heart with delight and joy.

Phew.. Well, thank you so much for sticking with me through this whole thing. I hope this helps people get more perspective on Salmonids, and what little we know about their community and culture.

#Salmonid #Salmon Run #Splatoon #Splatoon 2 #Other Headcanons #mod stinky

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