#voiceless-terror

[insinirate]

Tbh the main conflict of Stampede is that Knives wants to get nasty with Vash and Vash would rather not

The only meaningful difference in the dog AU is that Vash is very happy about getting bred by his big brother

my anons sometimes have such a way with words that i can only dream to grasp

[concordewillfly]

my favourite pastime ever is screaming along to songs knowing in my heart i could never scream like that but i do it anyway so i sound like a cat yowling and such. my screamo princess status cant be taken away

[spacebarbarianweird]

@ramlightly graciously let me write a fic based on this comic. Check it out, it's so cool!

"Dominate Person" is a nasty spell that can fully submit a humanoid to your power. It's unclear if the victim has self-consciousness in the moment but since it's possible to throw Wisdom saving rolls I think you can feel that you are controlled.

Thanks @bhaalbaaby for beta-reading!

Puppet Master

Synopsis: Astarion is enchanted by the "Dominate Person" spell and almost kills Tav.

Tags: angst, comfort

TW: A description of physical violence

Read on AO3

Masterlist

Headcanons

Astarion wants to move. To hide in the shadows and shoot the necromancer from there.

You are surrounded, but you keep doing your work.

But he can't.

His body is paralyzed, and he feels a wave of panic. 

No, not this. Not "Hold Person"!

He can't do this. He can't make it.

Paralysis is like being sealed in a tomb with too little space to move. Helpless, voiceless.

What if something happens to you when he is like this?

"Astarion, use your daggers!"

Is it you? Or one of the adventurers you've teamed up this morning to kick necromancers out of the town?

Astarion just has to wait. The spell wears off when the spellcaster is down. Or a healer manages to find a way to get rid of the invisible chains.

Or...

USE THE DAGGER

The voice is intimidating, too loud, and too powerful.

It's like the Cazador's voice in his head again. Suppressing. Ordering. Torturing.

No, no...

Astarion feels his hand move toward the dagger. The strings make him move.

It's not "Hold Person".

It's "Dominate Person".

Full control of the victim. The voice your body cannot resist. You become one of them, fighting for them.

Murdering your loved ones.

KILL

Astarion rushes forward to you. To the only person he loves and cares about. The only person in the entire world who has never hurt him.

"Astarion! Help me! Astarion, what's wrong?"

Astarion pushes you into the ground with all his newfound vampiric strength.

No, no, please, stop it!

MURDER THEM

The dagger stabs through your stomach, causing an internal rupture. The second dagger wounds your chest.

You stare at him in pain, in silent prayer. You watch your lover killing you.

Blood. So much blood. Your blood.

A strong hand pulls Astarion from you, but it's not enough.

Astarion has an order from his new master.

To kill you. To make sure you are dead.

It is the worst type of dissociation. He is just an observer.

His hands rip you apart as if you are a prey he's found in the woods. Your eyes are full of terror and pain.

VAMPIRE, DRINK THE BLOOD.

No, no, I won't do it. I don't take the blood without consent... NO!

His fangs pierce into your neck, taking the blood non-stop. To satiate him, to let him feel alive.

And to drain you.

He is less than a slave. A puppet. With his locked mind in agony.

CRUSH THE SKULL

Astarion grabs a handful of your hair to smash you against a stone. Your body is motionless. Broken. Almost dead.

And then...

The agony of death pierces the mind. It's an acid flare of horror - too familiar for the undead.

It happened to him once, many years ago. When he was killed by Cazador and revived as a vampire spawn.

That's how death feels.

But he isn't dying. More than this, his body is his again.

Astarion stands up, feeling the nightmare wearing off.

Your body lies on the ground in blood and gore.

Astarion falls to his knees, his hands shaking.

And yells.

**

You wake up, your body sore and in terrible pain.

Astarion.

Your mind reacts with a panic attack - a near-death experience causing mental anguish. Your body remembers how Astarion jumped on you with his daggers.

How he ripped your throat.

How he almost crushed your skull.

You try to collect yourself. "Dominate Person". One of the nastiest spells necromancers know. Create a humanoid puppet and make them kill their friends and loved ones. While they silently scream, locked in their minds.

Some people never recover from that. Offing themselves, not being capable of dealing with what they did.

Damn, and what did it do to Astarion? It's what happened to him during his enslavement. Orders impossible to resist.

You want to call for him, but your body refuses to act. It remembers.

His hands, his fangs.

And his eyes in such desperation you've never seen.

Before you manage to collect yourself again, you fall into oblivion.

**

Astarion is silent.

His nails pierce his scalp. His teeth are clenched. His eyes open wide as he stares at the wall.

The companions who murdered the necromancers ignore him, but he doesn't feel any hostility.

Just a spell. It happens.

"Astarion... Is this your name, right?" a young fighter approaches him. "You need to take a bath."

Astarion looks at himself. His clothes are covered in blood. Your blood.

"Tav will be fine. We have good healers here. Don't blame yourself."

As if enchanted again, Astarion walks away. In silence, he locks himself in the bathroom - a small wooden room with a tub full of hot water. But instead of putting off the dirty clothes, he submerges himself fully clothed.

The fabric clings to the body, and Astarion hugs his knees. The blood mixes with water.

His back hurts as if his scars are bleeding.

He doesn't know how long he spends there. An hour? A day? A week? The water is cold. but he can't care less still hearing your cries.

The door creaks, and he notices familiar soft steps.

"Astarion? Are you alright?"

He can't look at you. Can't make himself. Can't witness the damage he caused.

"I almost killed you, and you ask how I am doing?" his voice breaks.

"The necromancer almost killed me," you say firmly. "Not you. Hey, look at me!"

Your head is heavily bandaged. There are bruises all over your face, and he knows there is much more evidence of his violence below your shirt and trousers.

"It wasn’t you. It was them. You would never do this to me."

"I did."

"You didn't. Come on, take off your clothes. They’re all wet."

He wants to make you go, make you leave. He will be happy knowing you are somewhere safe and far from him.

You touch his neck, and he can't resist. Astarion allows you to pull off his shirt and then manages to take off the trousers as well. 

"I am sorry," he whispers.

"Don't." You start rubbing his back, and he flinches when your gentle fingers touch the edges of the scars.

"Tav... You need to rest..."

"Don't be selfish. I need this, too."

"What? Why?"

You take his chin and make him look up at you. "Because my body remembers you killing me. Because my subconscious tells me to run away. Because I remember these gentle hands of yours driving blades into my chest. I need to forget it before it's engraved forever. So please, don’t push me away. Not now..."

You keep rubbing his back, hands, and chest. You plant kisses on the clean skin. You wash his hair, stained blood, and gore, and make sure your touches are light and tender.

"If you want to talk about it, I am here. I know what exactly it reminded you of," you whisper in his ear.

And at that moment it's too much.

His body shudders as he starts crying, hiding his face from you in his palms. You drop the rags and wrap your hands around his neck.

You sit like that for an eternity, lulling each other until the healer starts banging into the door, demanding you to return to bed. You reluctantly let Astarion go.

You kiss him goodbye and leave, hoping the darkness won't hold his mind again, and he won't run away from you and his guilt.

**

The bed is comfortable as you lie motionless on a blanket. The healer did a great job patching you together. But you will need to fully recover. And gallons of healing potion.

Astarion enters the room. He wears fresh clothes, and if it wasn't for his facial expression, you could think nothing bad has happened.

"Come," you ask him. "I am sorry, but the night of passion isn't an offer today."

"Don't be ridiculous. How are you feeling?"

"Beaten. Wounded. Tired. And you?"

"Violated"

You both are silent. Finally, Astarion lies beside you and wraps his hands around you.

Your body stiffens against your will. Astarion feels it and tries to let you go.

"No. Hold me like that!"

He obliges and gently places your head on his chest. His cool skin feels nice.

Astarion loves me. He won't hurt me.

You repeat it like a prayer before finally being able to fully relax.

"I love you," he mutters. "I won't hurt you. You hear me?"

You nod.

"I love you, too," You smile, and your heart rejoices when he smiles back.

--

Tag list

@tugoslovenka @marcynomercy @wintersire @vixstarria @not-so-lost-after-all @ashiro20 @theearthsfinalconfession @herstxrgirl @starlight-ipomoea @micropoe10 @astarion-imagine-archive @veillsar @elora-the-slutty-songstress @fayeriess @lumienyx@astarion-beloved@tallymonster@caitlincat-95@tragedybunny @valeprati @lynnlovesthestars

[pretzel-box]

Tags: Romance, Therapist Reader x Patient Sebastian, Human AU where Sebastian escaped as human from urbanshade, fluff.

Cordelia from @splatting-stampede mentioned

Words: 6,4k

Authors Note: May be strangely written since this was supposed to be a series as well that I scraped a while ago.

Sebastian Solace sat in the comfortable seat of a neat black car, his hand absently tracing the soft cotton surface beneath him, the pads of his fingers brushing lightly, almost reverently over the expensive looking fabric. His nails scratched it, ever so softly, just enough to catch on the threads but not enough to tear.

Touch was a simple act for the human kind—so instinctual, so innate. We touch without thinking, without meaning. It’s the most natural thing, something we do constantly, yet we seldom stop to consider it. For Sebastian, though, touch had become something different—something both grounding and disorienting.

He had the habit of touching things. Simple things, ordinary objects, as if by running his hands over them he could tether himself to the present, remind himself that he still existed in this world. His fingers would brush the cold, metallic pole of a street sign on his daily walks, savoring the biting chill of steel beneath his skin. Or they would glide over the rough wood of the cutting board he pulled from the shelf each evening, preparing another meal for his dear mother, feeling the grains of the wood press into his palms—a familiar sensation, comforting in its mundanity.

But the soft cotton of the car seat, the way it yielded so easily to his touch, triggered something deeper within him. His mind began to drift, the memories rising unbidden like ghosts in the corners of his thoughts. At first, it was harmless—the recollection of his childhood, the warmth of home, the innocent textures that filled his world back then. The feel of his mother’s worn apron when he hugged her after school, the smooth glass of the windows he’d press his face against, watching the rain slide down in endless rivers.

Yet those memories, so pure, began to twist. They bled into something darker, tainted by the nightmares that Urbanshade had burned into his soul. The soft brush of skin against skin due the contact with the urbanshade soldiers, once a sign of comfort, now carried the weight of fear. He could still feel the slick warmth of human flesh under his nails, the sensation of digging into it—not out of malice, but out of desperation. The way it gave way beneath pressure, soft at first, then firm, until you hit the bone, that unforgiving barrier beneath the fragile veneer of the body. The rush of terror that coursed through him, through them.

His fingers trembled slightly, still tracing the seat, but now his mind was elsewhere. It wasn’t the soft fabric beneath his fingertips anymore—it was the cold, sterile metal of the surgery table. The way it pressed into his back, hard and unyielding, the chill seeping into his bones as they strapped him down, the harsh, sterile scent of disinfectant invading his nostrils. He could feel the restraints on his wrists, tight and unrelenting, the cold bite of the metal cuffs against his skin. He remembered how the lights overhead blazed down on him, so bright they seemed to sear through his skull, and the shadowy figures that moved around him, faceless, voiceless. He felt the cold steel instruments in their hands, the sharp sting of needles, the pull of something beneath his skin.

Urbanshade.

It wasn’t just a place. It was a sensation, a lingering imprint on his very soul. To feel Urbanshade was to feel a violation of everything human. It was the coldness that seeped into your bones, the sterile touch of hands that viewed you as nothing more than an experiment. The loss of warmth, the loss of identity, the loss of control.

He dug his nails slightly harder into the car seat, as if testing its reality, trying to convince himself that he was no longer there. That this was just a seat in a car, a simple object, unthreatening. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the feeling. The memories clung to him, crawling beneath his skin like parasites, making even the softest of touches a reminder of what had been taken from him.

He closed his eyes, taking a slow, shaky breath. The car seat was soft—too soft. He needed something real, something solid, something that wouldn’t blur the line between past and present. His fingers ached for the sharp cold of metal, the rough grain of wood—anything that could remind him he was still alive, still here. Still human.

But even now, in the silence of the car, in the comfort of safety, Urbanshade lingered.

It always would.

Sebastian kept his eyes closed, trying to block out the world around him with a newfound mental force. The gentle hum of the engine was the only thing keeping him tethered to the present, though even that felt surreal, like a lull between nightmares. He shifted in his seat, feeling the faint resistance of the belt around his waist—another restraint, softer than the ones at Urbanshade, but a restraint that he despised nonetheless. The walls of the car, though padded with comfort, felt like a cage. No matter where he looked, it all felt so unbelievably suffocating as the memories kept replaying all over again.

The road stretched out ahead, dark and winding, and the faint glow of the asylum’s lights appeared in the distance. It loomed there like a monument to everything he feared. His heart quickened, not because he didn’t know what waited for him there, but because he did.

It wasn’t freedom. It wasn’t safe. It was just another kind of prison, one where they wouldn’t peek into his body but rather into his mind like some museum only to label him with a bunch of wrong things.

The two men in the front seats spoke in low voices, barely audible over the sound of the car, but Sebastian wasn’t listening. He didn’t need to. He knew what they thought of him—what everyone thought of him now. Broken. Dangerous. A man twisted by whatever horrors Urbanshade had inflicted. An experiment gone wrong instead of being an escaped survivor.

They didn’t understand. No one did.

His fingers continued tracing the seat, seeking that thin line between control and collapse. He could still feel the cold metal table beneath him, the surgical instruments, the way his skin had been pulled and prodded as though it wasn’t his own. The memories tangled together, one bleeding into the next, and he felt his breath hitch, his body growing tense.

The car jolted to a stop, and Sebastian’s eyes snapped open. They were there.

Outside the window, the asylum stood in the pale glow of the overhead lights, its high stone walls casting long, ominous shadows across the pavement. Barbed wire curled along the perimeter, a silent reminder that no one left without permission. The building itself was old, the kind of place that wore its history in the cracks of its foundation, the air thick with the memories of all the broken minds that had passed through its halls.

“Alright, let’s get him out,” one of the men said, his voice gruff and mechanical, as though Sebastian was just another case file to be processed.

The back door swung open, and cool night air flooded the car. Sebastian felt a hand grab his arm—firm, but not rough—and pull him out of the seat. His legs were shaky beneath him, the world swaying slightly as his feet touched the ground. He blinked, adjusting to the dim light, but his senses felt dulled, disconnected.

They moved him toward the entrance, the crunch of gravel beneath their feet echoing like a death march. His wrists were bound in front of him, not tightly, but enough to remind him of where he was headed. The large iron doors of the asylum creaked open, and the moment he stepped inside, the sterile smell hit him. It was different from Urbanshade—less clinical, more… institutional. But it was the same coldness, the same emptiness.

A receptionist sat behind a glass panel, barely looking up as the men escorted Sebastian through the main hallway. He passed doors, closed and locked, leading to rooms he’d soon know intimately. A faint flickering from the overhead lights made shadows dance on the walls, and for a moment, he thought he saw something—someone—lurking in the corner of his vision. He flinched, pulling back instinctively, but it was gone in an instant. Just his mind, playing tricks again.

“Room 314,” one of the men muttered as they rounded a corner. “That’s where he’s staying.”

The door to 314 stood ahead, solid and unremarkable, but to Sebastian, it felt like another cell, another space where his mind would be left to unravel in the silence. They unshackled his wrists before pushing him gently into the room, the door closing with a heavy, metallic thud behind him.

The room was small and drenched in gray, drowned from all colors. The bed was plain, the sheets folded with mechanical precision. A single window allowed a sliver of moonlight to pour in, casting faint shadows on the cold floor. Everything was sterile, untouched, and devoid of warmth. He stood in the center of it all, feeling the walls close in. It was like the movies he saw as a teen, where he giggled about the silliness of the gray walls, the gummy cells and those weird white jackets.

The men outside exchanged a few words with the nurse stationed in the hallway, but Sebastian didn’t care. He walked slowly toward the window, pressing his fingertips against the cool glass, feeling the barrier between himself and the world beyond. His breath fogged up the window as he leaned in closer, staring out into the night.

The asylum was quiet, peaceful in a way that felt suffocating. But inside his head, there was no peace. Only chaos. Only memories of what had been done to him. His mind flickered back to Urbanshade—the cold touch of steel, the searing pain that followed each experiment, the faceless shadows that haunted him still. The worst part wasn’t even the pain, though. It was the way they looked at him, like he was less than human. Like he was a thing.

He clenched his fists, nails digging into the palms of his hands, but the pain did nothing to ground him. His mind still spun, spiraling into memories he wished he could forget. Faces blurred together—his own reflection warped into something he no longer recognized.

He stepped back from the window, turning to face the empty room. The walls were bare, the furniture sparse, but it wasn’t the simplicity that unnerved him. It was the silence, the lack of life. There were no beeping machines, no harsh lights, no whispers of doctors making notes in the corner.

Yet somehow, that was worse.

For all its sterile emptiness, Urbanshade had felt alive—like it pulsed with the dark, unspoken secrets of the things that happened there. The asylum, on the other hand, felt like a void, waiting to swallow him whole.

And here he was. Trapped again.

Sebastian closed his eyes, sinking onto the stiff mattress, his head falling into his hands. They told him this place would help. That it would make the nightmares stop, make the memories fade. But he knew better.

This was just another place to lose himself.

And deep down, he wasn’t sure there was anything left to save.

On the next day, a woman with bright cyan hair came to his room, ripping the door open. She was clothed in pristine white, holding a clipboard and a pen while she scanned the room. The she glanced over at him. “My name is Sasha, I am the head nurse. And this wonderful young lady is Cordelia, your personal nurse. We will now begin to escort you to your first therapy session with the doctor. Please do not resist. Another woman stepped in front, probably Cordelia, she pulled the blanket from his body and let the cold air hit his limbs. He knew better than to resist, so he followed the lead of the two women.

The therapy room was sparse but comfortable, designed with a muted palette of soft blues and grays to soothe the nerves of its occupants. There was a large window with a view of the asylum's manicured garden, but the bars over the glass reminded everyone where they were. You sat relaxed in a chair across from Sebastian, clipboard resting lightly on your lap, pen poised but not moving.

Sebastian sat across from you, his body stiff in the armchair as though the cushion beneath him were made of nails. He hadn’t said a word since entering the room, hadn’t even made eye contact. His posture screamed defiance, with his arms crossed tightly over his chest and his legs locked at sharp angles. The air between you two was thick, charged with his silence. It was a barrier, one he had no intention of letting you cross.

“Sebastian,” You began, keeping your tone professional, calm. “We don’t have to talk about anything too difficult today. This is just an introduction, a way for us to get to know each other.”

Silence.

You resisted the urge to glance at their watch. The first session was always the hardest, especially with someone like Sebastian, someone who had been through horrors no one should ever have to experience. Urbanshade. The name alone sent shivers down your spine, even though you didn’t know the full extent of what had happened there. But you had read the reports, the endless files filled with medical jargon, lists of procedures, and psychological damage that painted a grim picture.

But reports were just words on paper. They didn’t show what was really inside a person’s mind, didn’t reveal the layers of trauma, fear, and anger that might be hiding behind the walls someone like Sebastian had built.

“You don’t have to say anything if you’re not ready,” You continued, trying to fill the silence without making it feel pressured. “This room is a space for you to express whatever you feel comfortable with. Or, if you’re not ready to talk, that’s okay too. We can just sit here.”

Sebastian’s eyes flickered, but not toward you. They remained fixed on a spot just beyond your shoulder, as if staring through you, beyond you. His fingers tapped rhythmically against his arm, a silent beat that seemed to fill the room, replacing the conversation that should have been happening.

You glanced down at your notes, briefly scanning over the key points they had planned for this session. Establish trust. Create a sense of safety. Encourage small, manageable steps toward communication. But how could you build trust with someone who refused to acknowledge your presence? How could you help someone heal when they wouldn’t even meet your eyes?

“Is there anything you’d like to talk about?” You asked softly, giving Sebastian the space to respond.

Nothing.

Sebastian’s breathing was even, steady, but there was a tightness in his shoulders, a slight tremor in his hands that betrayed his calm exterior. He was a storm, held tightly within the confines of his own body, and you knew that trying to force him to open up would be like trying to pry open a sealed vault.

“Sometimes just being here, being present, can be a start,” You added, not expecting a response but hoping your words might at least reach him. “You don’t have to rush. I’ll be here whenever you’re ready.”

The minutes ticked by in heavy silence. You could feel the weight of Sebastian’s resistance pressing into the room, thickening the air between them. His gaze never wavered, still fixed on that point in the distance, and you had to remind yourself to breathe, to stay grounded, to not let the quiet suffocate the session.

You could see it in him—the walls he had built, the armor he wore to keep the world at bay. And who could blame him? After everything he had been through, everything he had survived, of course he would protect himself. Of course he wouldn’t trust easily, or perhaps ever again. Urbanshade had taken so much from him—his sense of safety, his autonomy, his humanity.

“It’s okay if you’re not ready,” You repeated, more to yourself than to Sebastian at this point.

Sebastian shifted, his foot tapping the floor once before going still again. He was listening, that much was clear, even if he wasn’t engaging. His silence wasn’t apathy—it was something else. Maybe fear. Maybe anger. Maybe both. Your professional detachment reminded you not to push, not to pry too hard, but it was difficult not to feel the sting of rejection. You were here to help, but the wall between you two felt insurmountable.

“I want you to know that whatever happened to you, whatever you’re feeling, is valid,” You said gently, your voice steady but soft. “You don’t have to talk about it now, but when you’re ready, I’m here to listen. And I won’t judge.”

Still, no response. But you hadn’t expected one. Not today.

The session was coming to a close, the hour slipping away in a haze of quiet tension. You made a few notes, documenting the silence, the lack of interaction, but also the subtle tells—Sebastian’s tapping fingers, the tightness in his posture. It wasn’t much, but it was something. A small sign that despite his refusal to engage, Sebastian was present. He was here. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for now.

“Thank you for sitting with me today,” You said as you stood, tucking your clipboard under your arm. “We’ll try again next time.”

Sebastian didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge the end of the session, but you didn’t expect him to. You offered a small, professional smile before leaving the room, the door closing softly behind them.

Outside, you let out a slow breath. It was only the first session, and it hadn’t gone anywhere near as you had hoped. But healing took time. Trust took time.

And with Sebastian, they would need all the time in the world. You could see the two women, Sasha and Cordelia, walking down the hall, ready to retrieve Sebastian from the room. And then it finally hit you, Sebastian would need you.

…

Sebastian sat in the chair again, the same one as last time. His fingers drummed against his knee, but this time, the rhythm was slower, more measured. He stared at the floor, at the scuffed tiles beneath his boots, the edges of his vision blurring as he let his mind drift.

He knew the routine. The therapist—you—would walk in, sit across from him with that same calm, professional demeanor, and start talking. You would ask gentle questions, give him space to respond, and when he didn’t, you’d continue, as though his silence didn’t matter.

But it wasn’t that he couldn’t talk. He just didn’t want to. He didn’t want to pull the memories from the dark corners of his mind, didn’t want to speak them into existence, give them life outside his head. Speaking made them real. And he wasn’t ready for that.

He heard the soft click of the door opening and glanced up briefly, just enough to see you walk in. Your movements were graceful, unhurried. You were always calm, always composed. It was almost unnerving how collected you seemed in the presence of someone like him—someone so broken.

You don't know, he thought to himself. You have no idea what I’ve seen.

His eyes followed you as you sat down, the chair across from him creaking slightly under your weight. You smiled, a gentle curve of your lips that never reached your eyes. Not a fake smile, just... professional. Detached, like everything about you. But even then, there was something warm about it. Something that made him feel… different.

“Hello, Sebastian,” You said, your voice soft but steady. You crossed your legs, resting the clipboard lightly on your lap. “How are you feeling today?”

He didn’t answer. Of course, he didn’t answer. But instead of looking away like he normally did, he kept his gaze on you—just for a moment longer than he should have. There was something about the way you spoke, the way you sat there with that calm expression, your brow slightly furrowed in concern. It was different from the others. From the doctors at Urbanshade who treated him like an experiment, or the guards here who watched him with suspicion. You were present, really there, even though he gave you nothing in return.

“Today, I thought we could talk about some grounding techniques,” you continued, not fazed by his silence. “They can help when things feel overwhelming. When the memories come back, or when you start to feel like you’re not in control.”

Your voice was gentle, soothing. Not too soft, but not authoritative either. It was balanced, measured, like you’d practiced every word, every sentence, to avoid triggering a reaction in him. He knew what you were doing—he’d been studied, analyzed enough times to recognize the tactics—but it didn’t irritate him the way it normally would.

He leaned back in the chair, letting his eyes flicker to your hands as you spoke. Your fingers were long, delicate, resting lightly on the clipboard. He imagined what it would feel like if those fingers touched his skin, tracing his scars, the ones Urbanshade had left behind. Would they tremble? Would you recoil? Or would you be steady, unfazed, just like you are now?

A strange warmth spread through him at the thought, something unfamiliar. He pushed it down quickly, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest.

“I know it might be difficult to talk about things right now,” you continued, your tone softening even more, “but sometimes, even just being here, in the present moment, can be a small step forward. We don’t have to talk about Urbanshade. We don’t have to talk about anything painful.”

Your voice was like water, soothing the edges of his raw thoughts. He found himself staring at you more openly now, watching the way your lips moved, the slight tilt of your head when you were trying to find the right words. There was something about her, something that drew him in despite himself.

It wasn’t like the clinical, detached therapists he’d seen before. You weren't prodding at him with cold instruments, trying to dig into his mind. You were just there, sitting across from him, giving him space to be whoever he needed to be at that moment.

His gaze wandered up to your eyes. They were soft, focused on him, but without judgment. There was a calmness in them that made him feel… safe. He hadn’t felt that in a long time. Maybe not ever.

Sebastian’s throat tightened, and he quickly looked away, staring back down at the floor. His heart was pounding now, though he couldn’t quite explain why. It was ridiculous. He barely knew you. But something about your presence stirred something deep inside him, something he hadn’t felt in years. Something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel.

Love.

The word hit him like a brick, and he nearly scoffed at himself. A crush? On his therapist? Ridiculous. Pathetic. But the more he tried to push the thought away, the more it clung to him, like a persistent shadow.

He forced his hands to still on his lap, trying to focus on your words again. You were talking about grounding techniques, but he wasn’t listening. Not really. His attention was drawn to the way your hair fell softly around your face, the way your eyes met his with a mixture of curiosity and patience.

Why were you so calm? Why didn’t you flinch like the others had? Why didn’t you look at him like he was a monster?

His chest tightened again, and for a brief moment, he thought about speaking. About telling you that he wasn’t worth your time. That you should stop wasting your energy on someone like him. But the words wouldn’t come. They were stuck, lodged deep in his throat, weighed down by all the things he could never say.

So instead, he stayed silent, watching you as you continued to talk, your voice filling the room like a soft, soothing melody.

He hated that he felt this way. That he was letting himself feel anything at all. But every time he looked at you, every time you smiled that calm, patient smile, something inside him cracked just a little more.

And for the first time in years, he wasn’t sure he wanted to put the pieces back together.

The third session begins like the others—with silence.

You sit in your chair across from Sebastian, clipboard balanced on your knee, pen hovering just above the page. You’re used to this now, the quiet that fills the room whenever he walks in, his eyes refusing to meet yours. He’s always so distant, so closed off, as if the world outside him doesn’t exist. But today, something feels different. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but you notice it—an energy, a shift in the air that wasn’t there before.

Sebastian sits there, his body tense, arms folded tightly across his chest. His gaze is, as usual, trained on the floor. His fingers, though—those are what catch your attention. They’re tapping rhythmically against his arm, a slow, steady beat that mirrors something deeper. His hands are large, strong, but there’s a kind of fragility in the way his fingers curl in, like he’s holding himself back from reaching for something just out of sight.

You try to focus, to stay professional. You’ve been here before, with patients who wouldn’t—or couldn’t—speak. You’ve spent hours in silence, waiting for them to take that first step. This is no different. Or at least, it shouldn’t be.

But Sebastian is different.

You don’t know when you first started feeling it—the slow pull, the magnetic draw that seemed to emanate from him despite his silence. Maybe it was the way his eyes flickered ever so slightly when you spoke, or the tension in his body when you mentioned Urbanshade. But it’s more than that now. There’s a heaviness in your chest that wasn’t there before. A tension that tightens around your heart whenever you look at him.

And then, something changes.

His fingers stop their tapping. For a moment, everything is still. You sense it before you see it—the way the air shifts between you. Slowly, almost cautiously, Sebastian lifts his head. His gaze meets yours.

It’s the first time he’s looked at you—really looked at you. His eyes, dark and intense, are fixed on yours, and for a moment, the room feels smaller. The space between you shrinks, though neither of you move. The weight of his stare presses against you, heavy with something unsaid. He doesn’t speak, but the silence between you is charged, humming with an unspoken connection.

Your breath catches. There’s something in his eyes that wasn’t there before. It’s not just pain or anger or the shadows of his past. It’s something else. Something that feels dangerously close to interest, to curiosity. And for the first time, you realize that he’s watching you, studying you just as you’ve been studying him.

You swallow, trying to push down the warmth rising in your chest. You’ve always been careful, always kept a professional distance. But with Sebastian, it’s harder. It’s harder than you ever thought it would be.

“Sebastian,” you begin, your voice softer than you intended, “I know it’s difficult for you to talk. And that’s okay. We don’t have to rush anything. I’m here whenever you’re ready.”

You’re trying to sound calm, collected, but his eyes haven’t left yours. The weight of his gaze is unrelenting, as if he’s seeing through the layers of professionalism you’ve carefully built around yourself.

He doesn’t speak—he’s not ready for that—but there’s a flicker of something in his expression. Something vulnerable, something that makes your heart ache in a way you weren’t prepared for.

The tension in the room grows, thick and heavy, and yet neither of you move to break it. He doesn’t turn away this time, doesn’t retreat into his silence like before. He just… watches you, and you watch him, both of you suspended in this moment, like two people standing at the edge of something neither of you can fully understand yet.

You take a slow breath, forcing yourself to look down at your clipboard, your hand trembling slightly as you pretend to write something down. But you can still feel his gaze on you, lingering, like a touch that hasn’t quite happened yet.

This isn’t just another session anymore.

It’s something more.

And it terrifies you just as much as it draws you in.

And then he moved. Sebastian stood up from his seat, as if he was ready to leave. His actions held an unfamiliar confidence but instead of walking to the door, he took a step towards your direction, walking around the small table that seperated you.

And then he moved.

Sebastian stood up from his seat, as if he was ready to leave. His actions held an unfamiliar confidence, but instead of walking to the door, he took a step toward you, moving around the small table that separated the two of you. The room seemed to shrink as he came closer, his presence suddenly overwhelming in the confined space.

Your heart raced, confusion swirling in your chest. You opened your mouth to say something, anything, but the words lodged in your throat. He wasn’t supposed to get up—he wasn’t supposed to break the unspoken boundaries that existed between patient and therapist, between the quiet safety of this room and the darkness you both carried inside. But here he was, crossing a line, drawing nearer with each slow, deliberate step.

His eyes were locked onto yours, still dark, still unreadable, but now there was something beneath them—something that made your skin prickle with both fear and an odd sense of anticipation. Every muscle in your body tensed, as if preparing for something you couldn’t quite understand yet.

The space between you disappeared as he stood directly in front of your chair. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands flexed at his sides. His movements were slow, calculated, and there was a strange gleam in his eyes—something dangerous.

"Sebastian…" you whispered, unsure of what was about to happen.

He didn't respond, not with words. Instead, he reached out, his hand lifting slightly as if he were about to touch you, but then paused, hovering inches from your cheek. Your breath hitched in your throat, the proximity making your pulse quicken.

For a brief moment, a flicker of fear shot through you. The way his eyes darkened, the way his fingers twitched… It felt like something was wrong, like this moment was teetering on the edge of something you couldn't control. You wondered if, maybe, he was about to lash out, to hurt you, to let the trauma and anger he carried inside finally spill over.

But then, instead of striking, his hand gently cupped your face.

The touch was startlingly tender, a stark contrast to the intensity in his gaze. His fingers brushed your skin softly, almost reverently, as if he was testing the reality of you being there, in front of him. His thumb traced the curve of your jaw, and despite yourself, you leaned into the warmth of his palm.

Your breath caught again as he leaned down, his face inches from yours. His eyes, though still intense, had softened, and the tension in the room changed. The danger, the anticipation, melted into something else entirely—something even more frightening in its vulnerability.

Sebastian’s gaze flickered to your lips, and for the briefest of moments, you saw the battle raging within him—the conflict between everything he’d endured and this sudden, raw connection with you. He wasn’t supposed to do this. Neither of you were. But the pull between you was undeniable, the boundaries crumbling beneath the weight of it.

And then, without a word, he kissed you.

It was slow, hesitant at first, as if he were afraid you might pull away. His lips were soft against yours, his hand still cradling your face with that same unexpected tenderness. The kiss deepened, and something in the room shifted again—whatever line had existed between you two was now gone, lost in that moment.

Your hands, almost instinctively, reached up to grip his shirt, pulling him closer as you kissed him back. Every ounce of fear, every question that had been running through your mind, disappeared as the kiss grew more intense. There was no need for words now, no need to explain what this meant.

In this moment, the silence between you wasn’t empty anymore—it was filled with something deeper, something far more dangerous than you’d ever imagined.

But you couldn’t pull away. Neither of you could.

For a moment, the world outside the two of you ceased to exist. The heat of his mouth, the weight of his hand on your face, the warmth of his body pressing closer—all of it consumed your senses, drowning out the rational thoughts that had once kept you grounded. You knew you should stop, knew you should pull back and remind him, remind yourself, of the rules.

But then you felt it—Sebastian’s slight retreat, as if testing the waters, his lips barely parting from yours. The absence of him was like a shock, the cool air rushing between you as he paused, his forehead resting against yours. You both lingered there for a second, just breathing each other in, his breath mingling with yours, the charged space between you humming with something neither of you dared to define.

Your heart thundered in your chest, your fingers still clutching his shirt, as if you feared letting go would shatter the fragile moment. He didn't move, waiting, watching you with those dark eyes that now seemed impossibly soft, full of a vulnerability you’d never seen before. It was in that moment you realized the thin barrier you had built, the one designed to protect your professionalism, had crumbled entirely.

You could hear your own voice inside, pleading for control, urging you to step back, but the whisper was distant and weak. The pull between you was undeniable. The heat of him, the way his body angled ever so slightly toward yours—it was magnetic, irresistible.

And then, as if on cue, you leaned up, closing the space once more, your lips meeting his again. This time, there was no hesitation. The kiss was deeper, more insistent, as if both of you had surrendered to the inevitable. His other hand found your waist, pulling you closer still, and you let him. You wanted him closer, needed him closer.

Your carefully constructed rules dissolved completely, fhe professional detachment you'd clung to for so long disappering in the face of this undeniable connection. You had spend so much time trying to remain objective, distant and now it all seemed foolish. All that mattered was this, the way he held you, the way your bodies moved together as if they were meant to.

As the weeks passed, the stolen moments between you and Sebastian grew more frequent, more intense, yet somehow quieter. The tension that had once simmered beneath the surface had given way to something gentler, something more tender. It wasn’t just about the stolen kisses anymore; it was the way his eyes softened when he looked at you, the way he would linger at the end of a session, reluctant to leave.

Sebastian had changed.

At first, his walls had been as impenetrable as ever, the therapy sessions filled with the same guarded answers, the same dark silences. But little by little, you noticed a shift. He started talking more—not much, but enough to notice. He would occasionally let slip fragments of the pain he carried, the anger that had always bubbled just beneath the surface. And when he did, his eyes would find yours, as if seeking reassurance that it was okay to let go, even just a little.

The asylum, a place that had once felt like a prison for him, became something else. His steps were lighter, his time with you less of a battle and more of a release. And though neither of you had ever spoken about what was happening between you, there was an unspoken understanding. It was dangerous, yes, but it was also necessary—something that grounded both of you in a way that nothing else could.

Sometimes, after the sessions, when the building was quiet and the dim lights cast long shadows, he would stay behind. You both would sit in the darkened room, no words exchanged, the boundary between patient and therapist blurred beyond recognition. In those moments, when the world outside was distant and the only sound was the ticking of the clock, it felt like everything was on the verge of changing again. And yet, neither of you pressed for it. The uncertainty lingered, hanging between you, a reminder of the rules you’d broken, the risks you were taking.

One evening, as the session ended and you stood by the door, he paused on his way out. He hesitated, his hand gripping the frame, as if unsure of something. He didn’t say goodbye. Instead, he turned back to you, his expression softer than you’d ever seen it.

"Thank you," he said, his voice low, barely above a whisper.

You didn't ask for what. You didn’t need to. His eyes told you everything—the progress he had made, the comfort he had found, the lines he had dared to cross. For the first time, it felt like he was no longer just surviving, but living, however uncertain that life might be.

And then, as always, he was gone, the door closing softly behind him. You stood there for a moment longer, the echoes of his presence still lingering in the room.

You knew this couldn’t go on forever. Eventually, something would have to give. The relationship you had with Sebastian—whatever it was—was unsustainable in the long term, the delicate balance you’d struck destined to unravel. But for now, in this moment, you allowed yourself to breathe, to accept that things didn’t always need to be defined, that sometimes the most important connections were the ones that defied logic and rules.

The future remained uncertain, but one thing was clear: Sebastian had found something with you—something that had softened the edges of his world, made him feel, even just a little, that he wasn’t alone in the darkness. And in return, you had found something, too—a connection that made you question the boundaries you’d built around your own heart.

Where it would lead, you didn’t know. But for now, you were both willing to wait and see.

[corruptedcaps]

A Worthy Successor

Beth’s eyes widened in terror as the ominous voice echoed through her mind. "No! I won't let you! I won't let you take over my body! No! Noooooooohhhhhh!" Her desperate plea filled the dimly lit room.

Suddenly, the air grew heavy, and an unnatural calm settled upon Beth. A sinister chuckle resonated, followed by a soothing voice that whispered, "Mmmm, that's much better. I don’t know why you fought against this Beth, your innocent little body will be the perfect vessel for me. You should be honoured that you’ll become the new Black Queen! But if we’re going to strike fear into this world then we’re going have to look a little more... wicked."

The room quivered with an otherworldly energy as shadows danced around Beth, twisting and contorting. An eerie silence fell before a surge of dark power consumed her. The transformation began, and the air crackled with malevolence, signaling the birth of a formidable force within the unsuspecting church mouse.

"No! This can't be happening! Stop!" Beth’s desperate cries filled were voiceless inside her head as the dark power intensified around her. Her own voice chuckled with a sinister delight. "Embrace it, my dear. You'll thank me for the gift I’m about to bestow upon you."

Despite having no control over her body anymore, Beth felt a strange warmth spreading from within her. "What... What are you doing to me?" she stammered, her voice quivering.

The Black Queen's laughter echoed, drowning out Beth’s protests. "You'll soon find out, my pet. Watch as your dull world transforms."

Beth’s chest began to swell, and she gasped, feeling the fabric of her clothing stretch against the burgeoning curves. "No, stop! I don't want this!"

But the dark queen's whispers continued, weaving through her thoughts like a venomous thread. "Oh, but you do. I can see inside your mind that you’ve always wanted respect, power, control. I am giving that to you. Embrace the beauty and power I grant you. Become the vessel I seek."

Resisting the changes, Beth’s once-flat chest now defied her will and gravity, blossoming into a voluptuous display. “What have you done to me?”

A seductive laughter filled the room. “I’ve only just begun, my dear. I’ll give you a new form that will turn heads and command the attention you so desperately crave.”

Beth’s ordinary brown hair transformed into a cascade of silky black, each strand shimmering with an otherworldly glow. The glow seemed to extended to her skin which changed from her usual pale to a deep brown tan. Long sharp nails painted a deceptively soft pink shot out of her fingers. The Black Queen observed her reflection in the mirror allowing Beth her first glimpse at her transformed body.

The Black Queen’s voice resonated with triumph. “Behold, you are now a vision of beauty and power. You are no longer a mouse; you are a lioness of wicked beauty.”

Beth couldn’t believe how she looked. Her plain body had been warped into a wicked altar of beauty and cruelty. And yet, with each passing moment, Beth’s resistance waned. A conflicted expression crossed her face, torn between fear and a growing fascination with the newfound allure.

As the Black Queen’s power continued its course, Beth, her voice now a hesitant whisper, uttered, “Please… more. Change me further.” The once defiant good girl found herself succumbing to the Black Queen’s irresistible influence.

“A Queen does not plead; they demand, they take. Go ahead, Beth, change yourself further.” The black queen’s command echoed through Samantha’s mind, and a surge of dark magic coursed through her veins. Control over her own body returned, and Beth found herself standing at the precipice of an important decision.

The newfound power within her granted the ability to exorcise the black queen, to reclaim herself from the clutches of this malevolent force. However, the allure of the dark transformation lingered, a tempting proposition that whispered of untold power and wicked beauty. The power felt too good, she looked too good. All she wanted now was to be bad.

With an evil smirk crossing her lips, Beth embraced the dark power that coursed through her veins. Raising her hands, she conjured a malevolent energy that enveloped her.

"Well, well, my dear aren’t you a natural," the dark voice whispered within Beth's mind. "Show the world the irresistible allure of shadows."

Beth's eyes gleamed with dark intensity as she surveyed her reflection. "Watch and learn," she replied, her voice now a sultry whisper, a stark contrast to her former self.

The once-subdued garments gave way to a tight-fitting, glossy black strapless oufit that clung to every curve. Intricate red patterns adorned the fabric, forming arcane symbols that seemed to writhe and pulse with an unholy energy. The outfit accentuated Beth's voluptuous figure, leaving little to the imagination.

"Is this what you desire?" the dark voice purred. Beth, with a wicked smile, replied, "Oh, it's only the beginning."

Her legs, now encased in knee-high boots crafted from shimmering obsidian leather, exuded a seductive allure. The boots, adorned with silver spikes along the heels, added a touch of danger to each step. Beth's reflection in the mirror revealed the transformation—a vixen of shadows, ready to command the forces of darkness.

Sleeves of sheer obsidian fabric billowed around her arms, as if woven from shadows themselves. A high, embellished collar framed her delicate features, imparting an air of dark authority.

"A queen should command attention," the dark voice echoed. Beth, with a flourish of her hand, summoned a flowing, sheer cape around her waist. It billowed with an otherworldly breeze that seemed to originate from the abyss itself. The inside of the cape was lined with red velvet, adding an air of regal malevolence.

As she completed the ensemble, Beth's eyes glowed with black intensity, mirroring the dark magic that surged within her. Her hands, adorned with talon-like nails, hovered over her transformed self with a newfound sense of mastery.

"Behold the queen of darkness," Beth declared, her smirk deepening. The room, now tinged with an aura of dark enchantment, bore witness to Beth's transformation into a queen of wicked beauty, fully embracing the dark path laid before her.

"Ah, my worthy successor," the dark voice resonated with a sinister satisfaction. "You have passed the test, Beth. You shall bring this world under your heel."

Beth's eyes gleamed with triumph as the dark magic continued to pulse within her. "Of course, I am worthy," she declared with an evil cackle. "I am the black queen, and this world shall bow before me."

The room seemed to shudder with the weight of Beth's newfound power. Her laughter echoed, a chilling symphony of malevolence that heralded the rise of a dark monarch. The glossy black bodysuit clung to her like a second skin, and the obsidian boots echoed with each step she took.

"I shall revel in chaos, and my reign will be one of wicked splendor," Beth declared, her voice dripping with arrogance. The cape billowed behind her as she reveled in the proclamation of her dark destiny.

Beth, with an air of regal arrogance, extended her hands, reveling in the malevolent power coursing through her veins. The once-timid girl had fully embraced her role as the black queen, ready to unleash her reign of wickedness upon the unsuspecting world.

[gertold]

having very regular thoughts about william clarke. his alienation from other people is a constant reminder to us and him in the body he no longer possesses. because in that moment when he connected with tanya, in that moment when he was reminded of lila’s existence…he knew there was no escape from this state he was born into. his habit never wore off when he first met lila, because he never had any sense of bodily autonomy to begin with, not with his mother.

in some ways it feels like a continuity of his mother’s torment, now in a metaphysical form: his mother saying horrible things to annie, making him cry, begging her to stop > lila directing the stranger to kill tanya for trying to get rid off her. the only difference that sets the finality of his condition is in the same terror william is gilded with, but now it’s voiceless, silent.

[eri-pl]

Tengwar <3

It's the best thing Feanor made. Seriously. Nobody will murder you for using Tengwar. Nobody will hack your brain when you use Tengwar in the wrong moment. (The lamps are ok, but kinda meh, Tengwar is better)

Did you know, just did you know, that every consonant has a name, and the name is a noun, and some are really cool (and foreshadowing)? (chart and translations below the cut)

So, if you want a chart, here is a chart. And the names are (I don't have diacritics, so I just double the long vowels) (Quenya mode, with some historical notes from LotR appendix and elvish.org):

"Normal stuff Feanor had on his desk" row:

T tinco - metal

P parma - book

K calma - lamp (like those Feanor made? Or... like those Aule made)

Q quesse - feather (birds are important!)

"Things that keep you trapped" row:

ND ando - gate (like... the Door of Night?)

MB umbar - doom (doesn't need a comment...)

NG anga - iron (also, used in sword names, even for non-iron swords)

NGW (in TA changed to NW) ungwe - spider's web (foreshadowingsight on Feanor's part? :) )

"Mountain things???" row

S suule - spirit or breath (Manwe Sulimo... king of winds and stuff...) | TH thuule - spirit or breath, but I'm a Feanorian, or at least I'm a linguistics geek and love the phonetic scheme (me! but otoh it sounds dumb :( ), or I love the Teleri and/or Sindar, who use it as th (Finarfin, iirc).

F formen - north

H (h before t) harma (voiceless velar fricative phonetically /x/... I think. the sources are confusing. In TA mostly softened into a breath h.) - treasure (my precious Silmarills...) | aha (later renamed, idk when) - rage (my Silmarils! and, even more importantly, my father!)

HW (like "wh" in "why" especially the fancy British way of saying it where it's actyally h-w, not w-h) hwesta - breeze

"We need to name a row after places of articulation" row

NT anto - mouth (couldn't you think of a better name? I get it's a place-of-articulation row, but i don't like it anyway)

MP ampa - hook

NC anca - jaw

NQ unque - hole

"Things that Melkor likes" row:

N nuumen - west (Numenor...)

M malta - gold

NG (by TA: N) noldo - Noldo, as in type of Elf. Yes, it was initially Ngoldo. I mean, initially initially it was a gnome, so...

NW nwalme - tornment

"I have no idea but vaguely positive-metaphysical?..." row

R (pre-consonant or end-of-the-word R | non-vibrating r, whatever this means. My bet is that it's "r" as in Japanese --- position like "r", movement like "d") oore - heart (or: rising. Guess whose name includes this component. funny that it's the same word as heart, especially given that heart is also defined as conscience here)

V vala - power (duh.)

Y (? it has some history) [there was a consonant here]anna - gift (totally not made into a sus word by now...)

W/V (Initially W, by TA changed to V) wilya - air / lower sky (funny how those two names are next to one another. )

"Really, I think Feanor ran out of ideas for coherent name sets" row

R (vibrating, typpical "rrr") romen - east (the same sound being written with "East" and with a word alternatively translating to "heart" or part of Melkor's name --- I love it! Why? See my recent post. I love that. Call it a coincidence, but I love it)

RD arda - realm

L lambe - speech

LD alda - tree (!)

Now we are not in regular rows, so, the extra letters:

S silme - starlight (or... metaphysically important light in general? because guess what word is connected to this one. Also, funny how it's just after "tree"). It's always S, never TH.

(nuquerma is just "flipped" or something I guess)

Z aaze - day / sunlight (in Noldorin changed to Z - aare) | SS esse (Numenor and later, because they did not use the "z" sound, I think) - name

HY (Numenor and later: H) hywarmen - south

I yanta - bridge

U uure - heat

(doesn't have a sound, in Sindarin it's A) osse - terror (I guess he isn't a very nice Maia?)

H (voiceless h: /h/ not /x/; in TA replaced by harmen) halla - tall | gasdil - stop

(short wovel carrier) telco - stem

(long carrier) aara - dawn

The Tengwa names after directions are also used as marks in the compass (like we use NSWE) And snarky comments aside, I love the schema and how the names connect into many interesting and often Silm-events-related patterns. I love how each (almost) row is named after a set of similar things.

I'm not an expert, and if I made some mistakes, I'll be grateful for corrections.

[deripmaver]

What’s The Point Of Elaine?

There are three eras of Casca in Berserk so far: Golden Age, Elaine, and Revived Casca. I find that within the fandom, Elaine is written off as not particularly worth analysis, that she just represents a transition state between the real Cascas, pre-eclipse and now revived. 

I do in some ways understand this feeling - Miura has said that in developing the story of Berserk, he ultimately decided in keeping Casca alive only because he needed a way to keep Guts’ rage intact, and not let the sands of time dull his need for revenge. This comes from an interview with Miura from 2017, that he spared Casca because she makes sure Guts never forgets the Eclipse. If I may editorialize, though, I think there are narrative reasons to keep a character alive, but that doesn’t mean said character isn’t being independently developed and doesn’t have their own inner world, especially when Miura has said repeatedly he’s trying to write real people and not archetypes. If I may also be snarky for a moment, considering one of my first interactions on Berserk tumblr had someone arguing that Casca stans read too much into Miura’s quote on her recovery to the point where you can’t even really assume he intended to have her recover - perhaps it’s reading too much into this quote to extrapolate that “Casca remained alive to fuel Guts’ anger = Casca as a character is only a plot device for Guts and Miura had no intention of developing her outside of that.”

Another reason to overlook her as a character that I do understand: Elaine is completely voiceless. She literally does not speak except for baby-ish noises from the time after eclipse until chapter 355, practically 275 chapters. For all of that time, we are given no indicating of how Casca is processing the eclipse (or not processing) - and so in some ways Elaine is just a narrative place holder as Kentaro Miura found his footing with her recovery. 

My intention with this post is to show that it is possible to gain a bit of insight into Casca’s feelings and emotions as Elaine from some key moments, even though she is never given a voice. Much like (in my opinion lol but also I’m right) Beast of Darkness is just a facet of Guts’ mind and not a separate being, ditto Femto for Griffith, Elaine is Casca, and she’s being written as Casca, just a shallow and surface level version of her. 

Elaine has these few shining moments where Casca comes through, showing that deep inside her mind, Casca is there, a terrified little sprite shielded by this childish outer shell, hiding from the world. First, when she jumps down the cliff during Conviction Arc:

Next, when she kills the men who attempt to rape her during the Winter’s Journey. 

I won’t post any more panels from that chapter lol. It would be better if there was just... A look into her mind during those moments, just for an instant. What made the actual Casca come through in those moments? How did she feel, suddenly being back in her body, in a world infinitely more terrifying than the one before she regressed? What happened to make her go back in, in her safe little cocoon of Elaine? 

Another moment where Casca comes through just for a moment is, in my opinion, one of the most powerful in the series: 

Casca has run to Griffith on the Hill of Swords. It’s not clear why - perhaps she remembers their closeness before the eclipse, or perhaps she’s being drawn to the moonlight boy, her son, in his body. All of a sudden, the unstable rock wall cracks, sending boulders tumbling towards her, and Guts isn’t close enough to get to her in time...

But Griffith is.

He protects her from the falling rocks, and we get the page posted above. This is the first time Casca has seen Griffith since he raped her during the eclipse. She starts to shake and sweat with him holding her still, her noises becoming terrified. She reaches out to him with a trembling hand, her eyes filling with tears. Her brand lets out a burst of blood, and her trauma and terror overwhelms her, while Griffith stares down at her impassively. Casca is still in there, and being confronted by her rapist again, she is absolutely terrified. This, to me, says so much about Casca in this state. Again, if we only could have gotten a glimpse into her mind at the moment, even if it was through the jumbled confusion of Elaine. I think it would have added so much.

I kept waiting for this scene to happen again with Casca revived, but at this point it hasn’t happened. Even with Casca in Falconia it hasn’t happened. MAYBE ONE DAYYYYYY.

There’s a particular look Casca gets when she’s terrified and dissociated, and that remains constant from the Golden Age, to Elaine, to post-revival. 

I also especially like that second panel, when she first wakes up as Elaine because her first instinct when terrified is to attack and bite Guts. It feels like a very Casca thing to do, and in fact that’s more or less what happens on their first meeting in the Golden Age, just a tragic perversion of it. Also, her expression is so similar to the one she made when she was begging Judeau not to die.

I think it’s worth noting that the impacts of Elaine on Casca are ongoing, and unlike some of the discussion I’ve seen, I don’t think anything that’s happened to her as Elaine will be brushed aside. As Elaine, we’re first introduced to her because she is absolutely terrified of all men, even her companions. 

This is reflected in the corridor of dreams, in my view, with the very unsubtle penis monsters (which I won’t post an image of LOL) - the association of men with sexual violence and sexual assault. Her close companions as Elaine were majority women, and this remained true after her revival. By the time Guts and Casca were reunited in Conviction arc, she seemed to have lost some of her mistrust of men, and him in particular - but of course that didn’t last long.

There’s also this imagery of her in a coffin, which is again reflected in the corridor of dreams.

Finally, and most interestingly, in chapter 372 it was pointed out to me that it seems Casca remembers her ordeal at the Tower of Conviction, and being surrounded by Falconia’s soldiers reminds her of the mob trying to burn her at the stake. 

There’s a lot to say also about Casca and Guts’ relationship and how his assault of her as Elaine impacted it, but I think that’s been discussed elsewhere and better than what I could. My point in writing this is to show that Miura was writing Elaine as Casca, and that there are moments where Casca seems to come to the surface and break through the protective façade. I think it could have only helped to give us just a brief glimpse into her mind in those moments, and it’s a detriment that there was nothing. In looking at the panels of Elaine, I think we can get a sense of where Casca’s recovery might go.

Interestingly, most of the moments I’ve shown here happen from before Farnese and co. join the group, and as the later arcs drag on I feel like Elaine gets goofier and less serious of a character, kind of like chestnut puck. Still, I still hold out hope that with Casca revived, even if she is in Falconia, we’ll start to see her process what happened to her as Elaine - especially if she comes across Luca and the girls, as I’m sure she will. 

Must protecc

[toxxictrait]

she is voiceless. her own unique personal story is begging to be told. she’s hurt but quiet and no one is bothered enough by her quietness to figure out what’s wrong (maybe because girls should be quiet anyway). it doesn’t matter you were hurt and changed because ultimately it doesn’t matter what kind of person you were or the potential you lost. it never mattered. you were inconsequential to them (you are a girl). people around you love you but the love you are given isn’t the love that saves you because those who loved you never really understood who you are (they loved you like they think a girl should be loved). nobody ever has. they have used your body and that made you feel even more of a stranger in your home, in your life, completely depersonalised (you’re starting to realise you don’t really exist as you, you only exist as a girl. for the world and your family, you’re not you, you’re just a girl. and girls are only good for their bodies) you know something has happened, is currently happening, and that something is wrong, but then why isn’t anyone making a fuss? (losing track of who you are is just what happens to girls. it doesn’t matter that it happens because it’s not robbing the world of anything but a girl). you can’t tell whether you even should be upset. maybe you have died but you don’t know it yet. why else won’t people see you for who you are? why else would people treat you as if you’re not there? you’re trapped with your existential terror. even your death isn’t enough to open the family’s eyes to what they lost. even after they find the safe, the cassette, even after they read her diary. sure it’s weird, alice was more than we thought she was, but they move on without understanding it. the family doesn’t realise Alice is in the pictures all along, but we see it. her desperation is conveyed to an audience of strangers who gloss over it as much as her family has. they focus on the depiction of the family’s loss more than on Alice’s experience of teenage-hood. no one grieved her. she’s alone. she says so, she writes so, she visits her family in their sleep, she spells it out; yet—even though they read, and listen, and watch the footage—no one sees or hears her. she’s ignored. but there’s no malice, because this is just how things go (as a girl).

[wordsintimeandspace]

Aro TMA Fic Rec List

Happy Aro Week! Since people seemed to enjoy my ace TMA fic rec list, I’m back for another round with aro recs! All of these are rated G or T. Labeling the pairings in these fics was sometimes a bit difficult, so just a note that I use the slash also for queerplatonic relationships. And, as usual, feel free to add your own recs to this post!

💚🤍🖤 

Love, Or Whatever You Call It by @morning-softness (Jon/Martin, rated T, 20k words. First part of a series!)

don’t say you love me by @bluejayblueskies (Jon/Georgie, rated T, 3800 words)

something about us by @dathen (Jon&Gerry, Jon/Gerry/Martin, rated T, 2300 words)

Three Little Words by @thekisforkeats (Sasha/Tim, Sasha&Jon, rated T, 4200 words)

More than Enough by @voiceless-terror (Jon/Martin/Sasha/Tim, rated T, 3200 words)

Deep Magic by @dathen (Jon/Martin, rated T, 800 words)

in the reciprocal by @bluejayblueskies (Jon/Martin, rated T, 8300 words)

There's a hole in my soul (I can't fill it) by who_needs_words (Jon/Gerry, rated T, 2000 words) 

ludus by @bluejayblueskies (Jon/Gerry, rated T, 2000 words)

i love him, i love him not by hisimisms (Jon/Tim, Tim&Sasha, rated G, 1400 words)

something in common by @annabelle--cane (Jon&Sasha, rated G, 1400 words)

and now all fear gives way by @backofthebookshelf (Jon/Martin, rated T, 2500 words)

Ordinary Love by @dathen (Jon&Daisy, rated T, 1400 words)

Pour out the gasoline by @qpenguin98 (Jon/Martin, rated T, 2800 words)

philia by @bluejayblueskies (Sasha&Tim, rated T, 2500 words)

we'll be the proud remainers by spacepirate (Jon/Martin, rated G, 1000 words)

[astarionfreak]

What do you think spawn Astarion (during tadpole times, before defeating cazador) does when he is alone? How does he act when there is nobody watching. Does he avoid thinking about the bad stuff? What goes through his head? Does he hate being alone or does he like it?

When it comes to Astarion being alone, or in silence for long periods -- I think about his worst memory.

This is what's revealed when the player tries to convince him to take the astral tadpole:

Player [wisdom]: Tell me of the weakest moment you ever felt in those two hundred years. Narrator: As you pick apart his mind, you discover his worst memory. That which brings him the purest terror. Complete solitude after being disobedient. Sealed. Buried alive. Voiceless. Will this be forever? A year of horror. Then the release. He will never disobey again.

I think Astarion hates being alone. I think the dark thoughts, his traumas, creep up on him when he's alone.

For those same reasons, he hates silence too. He'd rather fill the air with insults or jokes (he loves the sound of his own voice) anything to avoid spending too much time with his own thoughts.

His voice. His wit. His mind. Those things are his. Even though his body was not his own, I don't think Cazador could ever take those things from him. Not completely.

Except for that year -- that year of loneliness and pain. He did not learn how to be alone that year. He is a social creature. He suffered.

What does he actually do when he's alone? Something. Anything. When he's out hunting he has a goal. He's hungry. He's focused. The thoughts can't catch him when he's busy. Stay busy all the time.

If there's down time at camp? His face is in a book, his mind is occupied. If he's not reading he's keeping his hands busy by twirling a blade or sewing up the latest hole in Tav's clothes.

Hands busy. Mind occupied. No thoughts.

The only times he'll allow himself to dwell on the past is to plan for the future. He will get revenge. Cazador will die. Unfortunately he is terrible at planning, so he doesn't linger long and usually ends up looking for a distraction.

TLDR: I think he does anything to keep his mind occupied and hands busy. Reading, sewing, hunting, bothering Gale. He does what he can not to dwell on the bad stuff. Those things do not define him. He escaped. He's going to remain free. He is very social and hates being alone.

I do think, eventually, on his spawn path, that he can learn to enjoy being alone. But it will take time and healing.

[asterdeer]

what the first half of s4 is making abundantly clear to me is that john is afraid of being alone and like. can you blame him, can you BLAME him. they're currently swerving 180 degrees away from "get me a human body separate from arthur" as a goal, he's trapped inside arthur's eyes/body/soul and no one besides arthur and evil creatures who want to kill them horribly have ever been able to hear him. he's got arthur, that's it, point blank. they can't risk telling anyone else about john's very existence because his existence is an intrinsic threat to the humanity he wants to be a part of. so he's got arthur, that's all, and now john's mind is starting to wander, he's starting to lose his sight and memory too, and arthur is angry at him, and distrustful, and dissatisfied in general, and, worse, arthur is....... making other allies. making other friends. friends with bodies, friends who can help arthur outside of being his live-in screen-reader, friends who he can speak with in public, friends who are more reliable, more useful than john has ever been. friends who haven't stolen arthur's sight and hand.

can you imagine. the terror of knowing that the only person who can speak with you, who can share anything with you, is pulling away, spending less time thinking of you or talking with you, leaving you a functionally voiceless voyeur in someone else's body, afforded less and less attention and love and care even as you feel yourself starting to fracture? your weakness is a reason that the only person who can talk to you is no longer talking to you as much, getting angry with you, turning to other people? you can't turn to other people. he's all you've got. but you're not all he's got. what do you do? what can you do besides sit there and get angry to avoid the grief and desperation of watching your own isolation rushing up at you?

[delimeful]

carry them home (6)

warnings: illness mention, tension/fear, panic, mentions of antiquated medical methods, blood and injury

-

The illness hit Logan hard and fast, not that Janus was allowed to witness it.

He’d been immediately ordered in no uncertain terms to stay far away from their normally unflappable leader in his compromised state, the result of Vee’s paranoia rearing its head at precisely the most inconvenient time.

For some reason, the forced distance grated on him as it hadn’t before. Perhaps it was the uselessness. Like this, he was absolutely no help at all. And sure, he was no healer, but he knew a thing or two about being sick.

In the early hours of the next morning, Vee approached him with fresh trails of ink-black dripping from his eyes, and told him they were going to the nearest town.

“If you try anything, I’ll kill you,” Vee said, and it wasn’t a threat, but a simple fact.

Janus didn’t ask what he had Seen. He didn’t need to.

Vee was driven by fear. There were only a few things that would frighten him more than walking into an unknown town with an untrustworthy human, alone.

He pushed himself to his feet, and held himself carefully still as Vee ducked behind him and sliced through the rope around his wrists. The changeling scurried back the moment the rope fell away, as though Janus was a wild animal he was trying not to corner. Or vice versa.

Janus stretched his shoulders out in big, slow motions, and then twitched a hand out to tug the hood of Vee’s cloak up over the kid’s head, ignoring the startled snarl it earned him.

“I can get you what you need,” Janus told him. “If you can deign to follow my lead while we’re there.”

Vee’s lip curled, displaying a sharp fang, but he didn’t argue. “Then let’s go.”

By the time they reached the outskirts of town, any remaining bravado had faded from the set of the kid’s shoulders, leaving behind barely-concealed terror. If they walked into town like this, even the slowest farmhand would notice the strangeness of it.

“Kid,” Janus said, lowering himself into a squat to meet Vee’s eyes under the hood. “You need to calm down.”

“Shut up,” Vee snapped, “you don’t know what I know. If you could– could see, you’d be scared, too.”

His breathing was getting faster, now. Janus managed half a syllable before the oath sent a bundle of warning shocks down his spine. Right, he’d been so politely instructed to shut up. So much for talking it out.

He reached out and grabbed Vee’s hand instead, holding on through the reflexive jerk away, and started tapping a simple rhythm on his knuckles. With each repetition, he inhaled and exhaled deeply, setting the example for the kid to follow.

It took a few moments– Janus was glad they hadn’t left the treeline yet– but eventually, Vee regained his senses. He had enough coherency to snatch his hand back, at least.

“We don’t have time for this,” he said, sounding more frustrated with himself than Janus. “Are you ready to do this, or not?”

Still rendered voiceless, Janus blinked pointedly at the kid until he realized.

“... You can talk again,” Vee told him, with more reluctance than Janus personally felt the instruction warranted.

“Very gracious of you,” he replied, levering himself back up to standing. That fit seemed to have wiped out some of the kid’s nervous energy, at least. “You’ll need to hold my hand.”

“What?” Vee asked, as though Janus had just instructed him to fill his pants with toads.

“My hand,” Janus repeated with all the patience he could summon, scanning the road into town for activity. “Most human children your size seek physical reassurance when afraid. You’ll seem shy, instead of seeming suspicious.”

There was a long moment as Vee processed the explanation, his disbelief slowly turning to resignation. “Fine.”

He stuck a hand out as though he was about to get it chopped off, and Janus considered for a moment before reaching over and arranging his fingers so that they were wrapped around his wrist, instead.

“I have delicate hand bones,” Janus informed him primly. “My wrists aren’t much better, so do try not to crush them into dust.”

The grip placed sharp nails right over his pulse point, the artery in easy severing range, and the angle meant that he couldn’t grab Vee back or hold him in place. The kid stared at him for a moment longer before looking away, hood tilting towards the road.

“Fine. Let’s go already.”

Figuring that was probably as good as it was going to get, Janus dusted himself off and led the way into town.

–

Though he probably didn’t intend to, Vee played an excellent shy younger sibling.

The cloak earned them quite a few second glances, but between Janus’s friendly sheepish smiles and the way Vee kept drifting closer to partially hide behind him, they slipped through most of the early morning market without drawing too much notice.

Vee’s grip on Janus’s wrist was crushing, the strength of it fluctuating depending on how many people were within striking range, but despite the way his bones ground together, nothing had actually snapped yet, so he continued on without faltering.

The apothecary’s shop was small but well-stocked, and Janus could already see that they’d find what they needed with relative ease. There were a few custom remedies in stock, but without knowing the skill of the brewer, they were better off with the basics: coriander to reduce fever, mint balm for stomach sickness, and comfrey for the lungs.

He scooted a morbidly-entranced Vee past the shelf with all the jars. They’d pass on the leeches.

The apothecary looked them over speculatively, and Janus offered him a smile, ignoring the way Vee’s nails were digging into his skin. “G’morning, sir.”

“I certainly hope so,” the man replied, pulling the bundles over to inspect what Janus had picked out. “One of you sick?”

Janus really hoped Vee wasn’t trembling visibly. He didn’t glance over to check.

“No sir, it’s for our father.” Janus let his smile falter just a bit. “Ma didn’t want to leave him, so she sent me to get some herbs. He’ll be right as rain, soon!”

The apothecary grunted, and then looked over at Vee. “And that one?”

Vee froze, and Janus prayed his eyes were hidden well enough by his cloak’s shadow as he reached over with his free hand to ruffle the kid’s hair through the hood. “The baby of the family. My ma didn’t want him to be alone but can’t spare an extra eye for him. He’s a bit shy, please don’t mind it.”

Vee shrugged the hand off with all the petulance of an offended kid, which was exactly what he was, so long as one didn’t count the inhuman prick of claws Janus’s wrist was currently receiving.

“Mm,” the man replied, and didn’t seem any more perturbed than before. “That’ll be seven silver.”

Janus contemplated trying to barter, because that left him with nothing but two coins and a deeply suspicious ruby-studded ring in his coinpurse, but in the end simply handed the money over.

It wasn’t like Vee would allow for any detours to pick up anything else, anyhow. No point in clinging to it.

Their goods were wrapped in simple brown paper and slid back over to them, and Janus felt the way Vee’s hand twitched against his arm.

“You want to help carry them?” he asked, using his most patronizing speaking-to-a-child voice for added effect.

Vee’s scowl was a tangible presence in the air, but he nodded and accepted the bundles from Janus with extreme care anyhow.

Janus led the way out of the shop, and picked a path through the mid-morning crowd at a leisurely rate, peering at the stalls closest as they passed like any other patron.

Predictably, Virgil’s posture grew more agitated the longer the act stretched, and within moments, he was overtaking Janus and practically tugging him along as he attempted to hasten their departure. Janus resisted the urge to grit his teeth, offering an eye roll to any wandering eyes that caught on their hurried movement.

“Slow down,” he instructed under his breath, pulling against the kid’s grip on him. “Moving quickly draws too much–!”

“Pick up the pace,” Virgil snapped back quietly, and Janus grimaced as he was forced to match the kid’s speed or suffer the deeply painful consequences.

Whatever. It wasn’t too unusual to see younger children dragging parents around. They still had a chance of making it out undetected–

“Hold, there.” Someone stepped in their path, a hand raised.

Virgil jerked to a sudden stop like a puppet on a string, about as suspiciously as humanly– or in this case, inhumanly– possible.

This time, Janus couldn’t even blame him, because he himself had experienced an unpleasant shock at the sight of their latest roadblock.

Donned in glittering chainmail and a smooth faceplate, the Iron Guard member was both discernable at a glance and entirely anonymous. Some fae could mimic human faces and voices, and would use the skill to imitate commanders or just generally sow discord into hunter groups. Thus, the masks.

Abruptly, Janus realized that Virgil was still frozen in place, the subtlest tremor vibrating through him. He stepped forward, putting part of himself between the Guard and the kid.

“Hail and well met, sir. How can I help you?” he greeted politely, ignoring the way the words tasted like ash on his tongue.

The dark eye slits of the mask watched him for a long moment. “You seem to be in a hurry. Is something the matter?”

Virgil’s grip turned bruising, but Janus didn’t let himself flinch.

“Oh! No, sir, or– yes, but not the sort of matter you’d handle. Our father is sick,” he repeated; the worst lie was an easily contradicted one. “It’s nothing serious, no plague or nothin’, but it's got him bedridden, and my baby brother scares easy.”

The Guard tilted his head slightly. Janus couldn’t tell whether or not he’d bought it.

He inhaled, planning to spin the sort of rambling, long-winded tale that he imagined most would expect from his current farmboy persona, but didn’t get further than the first syllable before Virgil’s grip spasmed around his arm.

The kid made a strangled noise, falling to his knees, and though his face was still covered by the hood, a splatter of black ichor hit the dirt for all to see.

The Guard must have been newly initiated. He took a moment to be startled, to stare, to clutch at the hilt of his blade without drawing it.

Janus indulged in no such hesitation. Between one moment and the next, he’d pulled a sharp, thin blade from his hip, and plunged it into the weak point of the Guard’s leather greaves.

The man toppled with a cry. Before he’d hit the ground, Janus was turning, sweeping Virgil up and into his arms.

Even as his undersized frame was wracked with convulsive shudders, the kid had maintained his grip on the medicine packets. Janus had to admire the dedication.

There was only one way forward: escape. There was never only a single Iron Guard in town, and blending in wasn’t an option while carrying a writhing kid that might start banshee screaming at any moment.

Luckily, Janus’s feet were almost as quick as his tongue.

He tucked the kid closer and wove through the meager crowd with ease, stealing down the closest backroad path as silently as he could manage. Virgil was making high pitched whines through grit teeth, and Janus took a moment to hope the kid hadn’t bit through his tongue.

Another turn, and the treeline was visible. Janus bolted for it, abandoning any modicum of stealth to slip away into the dark of the woods.

There were raised voices behind them, a commotion beginning to stir into a fully-fledged mob, but it didn’t matter. He was out, and he wouldn’t get caught. Not again.

[thesoggyraincloud]

Catching her Chapter 8

/ Daryl Dixon x OC // Merle Dixon X OC (platonic)

Season 1-3 // THE QUARRY

word count: 2913

Updated

Warnings- Allusion's to SA, Cannon swearning and physical violnce ------

Instead of the comforts of a viable, functioning society, she had gotten two rednecks. They had arrived in a whirlwind, a week after the initial outbreak and a day after Quinn had run out of food.

------

Daryl. 

He hadn't felt terror in a long time. The kind that leaves you powerless, voiceless and without a scrap of logic left to reason with. That hadn't touched him since he was big enough to be called a man, since before he realised his fists left less room for argument than his words and he’d never seen a reason to turn back. The first time he’d felt terror was at the hands of his father, but this time maybe he understood Merle’s. Why he took the beatings and why he left. Because it paralyses you, when someone who feels like a part of you gets hacked away. Leaves you primal and wanting to charge towards the danger or away, whatever helps the feeling in your chest subside fastest so you can fucking breath again. 

Because he can't breathe. Not while she's in there and it’s his fault. He doesn't even know if she's ok, totally absent from their earlier scuffle at the Vatos base. All his senses tell him to run head first into the danger to get her, but the guilt in his chest makes him wanna turn on his heel and run away from it all entirely and back to Merle. His thoughts crashed and rolled against his skull as Rick spoke, forming words that were sucked away before they reached the redneck's ear. 

He was pulled from his thoughts when the items of offence were pushed into his view, the guns they unwittingly traded for their friends. And now would be forced to trade back, leaving him just as unable to defend her as before. He hated himself for it but his body felt tight at the thought that he’d be trading Quinn for Merle if he did this. One wrong move and he wouldn't be around to look for his brother. Hell every second that passes separated them by another mile, was she really worth more than Merle to him?

“Them Guns are worth more than Gold.” He huffed, rubbing his face, and quickly continued,  “Gold doesn't protect your family, put food on the table.” 

“Are they really worth it?” As the word left his mouth he physically pulled away from them, turning from the men and only thinking about the guilt coating his mouth. . 

“If I knew we’d get them back, I might agree.” Rick quickly turned toward T-dog, “What, you think Vatos across the way is just gonna hand 'em’ over?”

The boy they grabbed spoke up, Daryl didn't care for the subject of his words, only that the kid's voice made him feel like pushing his nose through into his skull. Hitting him didn't do anything to make him calmer it just poured more into his sense of injustice and had him pacing across the room again

“The question is do you trust that man's word?” T dog spoke over the chaos, and he tried to focus, to use his rage as a tool to help the situation and not hinder it, but he just ended up wondering how Merle would’ve responded. 

“No, the question is what you're willing to bet for it, could be more than them guns, could be your life. Are they really worth that to you? “ In his mind he asks himself the same question, weighing it against his heart and his mind. 

“The life I have I owe to him, I was nobody to Glenn, just some idiot stuck in a tank. He could have walked away but he didn't, neither will I.” he paused and handed Daryl a gun and continued, 

“I could be asking you the same question. That woman, Quinn, came out here to help your brother. She could've stayed back at camp with the rest of the women but she's out here for you.”

He wanted to knock the self righteous bastard around the head with the butt of his gun or push him out the window and into the street, he didn't have a damn clue and he sure as hell didn't have a right talking to him about it right now. That asshat was ignorant of anything that happened in that camp, hell he owes her shit? she owed him if anything. But the nagging feeling was pulling his feet toward fighting, bulldozing through the next few hours to get Quinn back to him so he could try and get some control over this hellish day. He knows where she is and if he could get her back he might have some hope in finding his brother.  

The men around him stared at him, eyes boring in and he realised they were waiting on his answer. 

“What, you gonna hand the guns over?” 

“I didn't say that.” Rick turned to T-dog, “You can still leave, there's nothing keeping you here.” 

Like hell there ain't, Daryl internally snarked, but T-dog chose to stay. Giving him nothing more to complain about. Leaving that space empty to focus on the pricks that took Quinn and Glenn.

“Come on, this is nuts. Just do like g says.” The kid spoke up, and sooner wished he hadn't by the time Daryl's hand connected with his face again. And like a highschool bell, the slap quietened the room, unifying them in their decision to leave. 

 The whole ride down he sat in anticipation, each metre the van flew over filled him with steam and fire. Like the bow of an old ship his mind fractured into a thousand working parts pushing and pulling against itself, the bedlam refusing to placate against what possibilities lay ahead. She hadn't been there when they initially tried the exchange, although from the way they’d displayed Glenn like a Christmas turkey, he's almost grateful he didn't see her. Or he would be if it didn't mean 100 different, worser outcomes might be taking place. It could be happening right now, what had he done to try and stop it but think about leaving her there with them to chase after his damn brother, yet again picking up after him. 

Soon enough the Van came to a stop and He had to prepare himself for the fire fight to come. He stepped out into the sun with a frown and pulled himself alongside the others with boots filled with lead. When the door opened, Rick led with Miguel, displaying the hostage and using him as cover from any enemy fire. It was a cold thing to do, Daryl mused. Stepping in behind them, it was clear they’d not lacked much in man power, at least seven or eight men stood guarding the entrance, locked and loaded ready to push them back out into the street. 

“I see my guns but they're not all in the bag.” The head vato, Guillermo spoke first. 

“That's because they're not yours. I thought I mentioned that.” Rick countered.

Both sides anticipate the pull of metal against their fingers. Someone spoke up from the back but Daryl was so weird on Guillermo he didnt make out what was said just that something was, staring into the crowd of antagonist’s he tried to pin the voice down to a face. 

“I don't think you fully appreciate the gravity of the situation.” The head Vato replied and the room felt like it shrunk as the Vatos pressed them back. 

“No, I'm pretty clear. You have your man, I want mine.” Miguel was freed, stumbling into the men in front and being absorbed by the crowd. 

“Two hostages for the price of one? I'm gonna chop up your boy. I'm gonna feed him to my dogs. They're the evilest, nastiest man-eating bitches you ever saw. I picked them up from Satan at a yard sale. And my boys will do worse to your girl. I told you how it has to be. Are you woefully deaf?” Daryl had to hold himself from throwing the gun and running at the asshole. 

Rick argued back but the situation grew more tense by the second, each man cocking their guns readying for the battle, that was until a small figure displaced the crowd in front. Breaking it apart and revealing themselves to be an elderly woman, calling out for someone to help. 

“Get that old lady out the line of fire now!” Daryl shouted, but she paid the situation no mind, not seeing the true threat before her. Tugging away at a man and crying for them to help someone they couldn't see. 

Guillermo shouted for them to leave but it was too late, with their weakness exposed they had no choice but to back down. The elderly woman, now realising the man in front’s attire started to shout in defence of her grandson, she thought the group came to arrest him. The situation quickly made Daryl feel grateful that his grandparents had never been any thought to him, looking after the old was the kind of burden he knew he couldn't handle with the dead walking. 

“Let em pass” That brought Daryl back to attention, pushing forward to find what he’d come all the way out here for. 

“Where's the woman?” He hadn't bothered waiting for an answer, heading off down the corridor towards Glenn's voice. 

“If your looking for your wife,  she's in the nurse's office.” A larger woman pointed towards a door in the opposite direction and he started for the handle, halfway turning it before he actually registered what she’d said.

“Wife?”  He questioned but the woman had already begun walking away back to the gathering at the end of the hall. 

He clicked open the door with a breath of relief, she lay down sleeping on the examination table and for the first time since she was gone Daryl felt he could shut his mind up, if only for a minute, as if looking at her might salvage this hellfire of a day. 

“Quinn, Quinn?” He shook her but she didn't stir, it took a hard shove before the woman woke up. Shifting in place and wincing in pain as she slowly opened her eyes to his face above hers. 

“Jesus Daryl.” She flinched back until he caught her arm bringing her up to a sitting position. 

“What’s wrong with you?” 

“Those damn asshats busted my back when they grabbed me.” She rolled her eyes as she spoke, looking away from him. 

“Lemme see.” He panicked as soon as he’d said it, pulling away almost immediately at the idea but unable to stop the words leaving his mouth. 

She shook her head, yes and took a sharp breath in. 

“There’s something I gotta tell you before you…you know.” 

“I was in an accident, there's a lot of scarring from when I was fused back together, I got a couple of grafts and shit too.” 

“Fused wha-” He was cut off when she raised her shirt, twisting around to catch his face. 

“Jesus Christ.” Was all he could manage, her back was a mass of scar tissues and mottled bruising. A perfect line snaking up her spine stood against the paintings on her skin as permanent evidence of the surgeries she’d had to save her life. 

“This is from an ‘accident’?” He questioned, although he was faintly aware she’d just said as much. 

She didn't reply, clumsily pulling down her shirt and letting out a heavy sigh. Rubbing her face, likely still sleepy. It wasn't unusual but something about the weight in her limbs set his mind in motion, his eyes watching her more carefully. 

“It’s not something I like talking about.” 

He turned away, wiping his damp palm’s on his jeans. He stood rigid on the spot, eyes darting between the wall and his feet trying to come up with something to say. But he was left at a blank, he had never seen anything like that on someone outside of himself, he could only think of his father and the crack of the belt flicking over him.

“We should go find the others, Daryl.” She broke through the image of his fathers torment, slowly walking to him until he took her arm to steady her, moving them both down the corridor towards their friends. 

Once all was said and done, the vatos were left with half the guns and ammo and Daryl hoped he never saw them again. He’d spend the minimal time inside hoping he would recognise the fucker that hit her, and the rest helping her hobble around trying to find a brace for her back. He’d been in a borderline rage helping her look for it in the vast building, but once they had it he was exhausted and ready to head back to the van and away from all these damn people. 

He could have died hearing glenn call out ahead of them. 

“Oh my god. Where the hell’s our van? We left it right there. Who would take it?” 

‘Merle” Rick countered, he looked at Quinn but she had no expression, refusing to meet his eyes. 

“He's gonna be taking some vengeance back to camp.” 

They continued their trek forward, pushing on despite the missing van, it was starting to get dark by the time they found a car in decent enough condition to hot wire. They all passed the journey in anxious anticipation at the wrath Merle might have inflicted upon the camp. He felt too done at this point to feel any guilt over it, Merle's potential actions might be his to deal with but until they got back he could have a moment of peace. 

His focus returned to Quinns rhythmic breathing, deep in sleep her face covered partially by his jacket collar. He found he had the temptation to pull it down from her face to get a better look. He settled on counting her breaths instead, watching the car pass by the highway. 

“Is she alright?” T-Dog spoke from his space in the empty trunk behind them. 

“They roughed her pretty good.” Rick filled the momentary silence as Daryl thought of a reply.

She wasn't ok, not in the slightest. He had no idea what the fuck to do to help her, hell he didnt even know there was something wrong with her and he’d spent the better part of 3 months with her. If she told him there wouldn't have been a chance in hell that he’d have let her run after those guns, she put herself in so much danger. 

“She’ll be fine.” He really hoped she would be. 

When they arrived at a stop the air was cold and silent, penetrated almost immediately as the car door shut by a scream that ripped out across the quarry. A chorus joined them, wailing on as Daryl raced forward, Quinn momentarily forgotten in the back of the car. 

He knew the others were following behind him, their footsteps quickly falling among the shuffles of the dead as bullets rang out. In the smoke and dispersing crowd, it was hard to tell how many there really were, taking extra agonising seconds to clear out the walkers. Every direction he looked they stumbled around, most covered in fresh blood. He took them down as they came to him, eventually running out of ammo and resorting to using the butt of his rifle to smash them down. 

“AMY!” 

“Oh god”

“AMY!”

Andrea’s screams signified the end of the walkers' evasion on their small encampment, Daryl stood alongside the rest of the group. Watching in shocked and equally horrified silence. No one moved for a few seconds, standing stagnant in the sea of death around them not daring to disturb her. 

“I remember my dream now, Why I dug the holes.” Jim broke through the clearing, ending the silence and snapping Daryl back to attention. 

“I need to go get Quinn.” 

He didn't bother waiting for a reply but he equally didn't expect one from the shell shocked crowd. As he got further out, almost halfway down the road they had left the car as he heard another slow, shuffle of footsteps coming towards him in the dark. Grinding dirt under their feet and limping over to him he didn't think twice lifting up the end of his gun and stepping forward in quick succession. 

“JESUS CHRIST” It was Quinn, shuffling down the road, in the dark on her own ready to be chomped down on by any geek around. 

“Are you Dumb? Or just high again because I told you to stay in the Damn car.” He grabbed her arm, his heart beating faster than it ever had before. He took a good look at her, checking for any more injuries as she tried weakly to pull away. 

“Fuck you, I woke up alone. To screaming and gunshots. Where were you? What the hell is going on?” He was silent, staring at her shadowed face watching her expression closely.

“Walkers hit the camp, and you’d know that if you hadn't gone out there earlier and stormed up Atlanta like your G.I Joe.” 

“Is anyone hurt?” At this point she was leaning up to him, so close he held his breath. 

He pushed her shoulder down firmly, immediately regretted it as she cringed back, wincing in pain. 

“Aside from you, Yeah. Just wait till you get back to camp, no point crying over shit you can't do anything about right now.” He slid his hand down her arm, letting her lean on him as they started the slow walk back.

---------------------------------

Next Chapter

Previous Chapter

Masterlist

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[fllagellant]

Okay so I played chapter 1 of dead space remaster last night here is the bulletpointa

- Isaac talks !!! AND he has a face !!!! Completely different from the faceless and voiceless we had in the original , but I understand why . He does show his face and speak in 2 and 3 , so they are open to playing around

- The voice acting is Good .. I am 99% sure it is a different voice actor for Isaac but he sounds Very similar ( if it Is the same voice actor then I am blaming my warping memory on this )

- DANIELS HAS A GIRLFRIEND . #LESBIANISM

- Fun that they give Isaac new lines and old lines from the original that belonged to the other characters , lines that he would say !! He’ s the ship engineer and specialist he would be the one yelling to go towards the blue light when the ship’ s gravity tethers go wonky

- I like his head … a lot of people didn’ t seem to like how they made him look but I think he still looks relatively similar ? Same people probably also got mad at the fact Nicole has wrinkles ( her deep smile lines ….. wah ) but also Isaac has brown eyes now and i’ ve never been more happy . + his brown hair having no grey Yet makes sense too … the one thing is his face is less round to me ? I wish they kept that

- Necromorphs scary

- They’ re quieter ? I swear they are . Yes they still make noise breaking from the vents but they don’ t make as many groaning / screaming noises while approaching .. either they did this to make it Worse or I need to play with the volumes again ..

- oh they also JUMP AT YOU . I do not remember any necromorph ( besides . The leaper . ) jumping. but imagine my terror when a slasher closes the gap between us ( while I am relearning controls ) by LUNGING . I do not remember that in ds1 at all I screamed a bit

- trying to remember combat triggers is worthless . I could play dead space 1 2008 with my eyes closed hardest difficulty front to back . Now , from minor encounter changes to the fact it has been … 2 years since I played a dead space game , longer since I played 1 , I am not a winner I am a loser

- playing with my little brother watching . He picks up on the fact that the necromorphs are the old crew . I tell them the dead do become the necromorphs we fight . He pauses . “ I had a bad thought … will Chen become a necromorph ? “ Chen died in the first encounter , and I tell him that it is possible ! Since there is a line about “ wearing my old face “ but I say it might take a bit before that happens

- The Kellion gets destroyed in a different manner ! Similar enough , but it was a fun new change ! Also Isaac’ s voice after losing the Kellion … my god . The voice actor is hitting it out of the water .

- it is cute Isaac takes his helmet off when he goes into the Kellion , idk how often he will take it off and on , but every so often is good and it is fun .. a nice way to show he feels safe

- He still has the horror protag hunch . I would have been so mad if he didn’ t

- talking with daniels and hammond , have to go to medical , find the captain . I’ m following the path I know is there . Hear a necromorph on the other end . Normal . “ Chen..? “ that’ s new . I look to my brother and he’ s wide eyed staring . I tell him he was right . He says he hates that . Very nice touch the necromorph that attacks Daniels and Hammond is Chen , adds a bit more to a scene that was already good on it’ s own

NEED to keep playing

[7grandmel]

Todays rip: 20/10/2023

SING A SONG ABOUT HOPES AND DREAMS

Season 7 Featured on: SGFR Presents: RIP²

Ripped by BobTheTacocat

20-RIP CELEBRATION DAY!!

You may be a little confused reading the bottom of that metadata - What's so special about today that's worth celebrating? Well, its more of a personal milestone, something I've been keeping track of in anticipation of this day, and it just so happened to land on the perfect date.

See, here's a little behind-the-scenes peek on how I manage this blog: I actually keep track of how many rips per season I've covered in total as to ensure I don't run off-track, and always keep the blog fresh. Without any sort of regulation like that it'd quickly become evident which periods of the channel I favored more, and it would no longer be a celebration of the channel in its entirety. I love SiIvaGunner - ALL of SiIvaGunner - but sometimes I forget just how far reaching that is, and this restriction helps keep me on track with the blog's goals.

I specify this, because as of this post, I've reached Twenty Rips Covered For Each Season on the blog. That's right - Twenty rips from Season 1, twenty rips from Season 2, Twenty rips from Season 3, and so forth, a perfect balance attained on the twentieth day of the month. That adds up to 160 rips covered in this blog's history, which is quite frankly a ridiculous number! I never thought I'd reach this point upon starting up the blog, but I'm so so happy to have finally settled into a groove of posting, and getting to hear the thoughts and gratitude from so many talented rippers I've long looked up to.

I want this blog to celebrate the entirety of SiIvaGunner. It is not a simple obsession with the nostalgic days of old, but a look into every single nook and cranny, no matter how under or over-appreciated, where everyone gets their due respects. And funny enough, a certain project on SiIvaGunner that released just recently has followed almost that exact same mission statement - RIP², the album of my fucking dreams and the latest effort from the SiIvaGunner Fusion Records project. Its entire mission purpose is to remix and rearrange pieces of every single part of SiIvaGunner's history.

Season 1's early days of Epic Flintstones and Stickerbrush State of Mind are paid respects to with arrangements like Super Grand Dad Bicycle Arrangement To Make Your Head Crumble Away™ and 7 YEARS LATER AND WE STILL JAMMIN', while the lore and holiday celebration of Season 2 as seen in voiceless and Follow μ’s receive love with jazzless and Winter Holiday at Route 216 -HQ Edit-. For Season 3, its joy, mystery and beauty as shown in :D and a certain storyline in the Christmas Comeback Crisis are reciprocated with the hilariously titled :3 and LD. Memories of Season 4's fierce tournament brawls and sincere, pure-hearted festivities as seen with Vote Responsibly!! and A love letter to this wonderful community and my amazing friends come flooding back with Yearning for the Tournaments of Yesteryear and Welcome to the Gaylord Resort!, while the quality tinged with sadness that defined Season 6 with rips like Fell From a High Place (Reprise) is rightfully honored with The Knight Sees Sunlight for the First Time. Finally, of course, there's the sheer unpredictable chaos of Season 7 as discussed in Hidden Headtoilets (skibidi toree 2), highlighted in all its absurdity with The Raft Ride of Terror. Its as if every rip on the entire channel, either with direct arrangements or indirect tributes, is paid respects to in one giant 96-track long loveletter to every single SiIvaGunner fan. It is impossible to not find at least one track in the setlist that clicks with you.

I did, however, deliberately exclude one season from the above rundown: the pure, unfiltered joy of Season 5, shown in rips like Story of Undertale, Field of Love and Cringe, or indeed, today's rip.

After a long, long process of going back and forth on which rip to highlight for today, I've finally landed on SING A SONG ABOUT HOPES AND DREAMS. The rip its arranging, Field of Love and Cringe, is immensely important to both SiIvaGunner and this blog - it was part of the initial first month of posts I ever made on the blog and was the first post to ever reach double-digit notes back when I hosted this project on my own personal blog. For SiIvaGunner, the impact that Antonymph Noelle has had on SiIva is hard to understate - its infiltrated the Undertale/Deltarune fandom in a way that next to no other SiIvaGunner rips have ever done, and possibly even influenced the direction her character was to be written in other canon material released past Deltarune Chapter 2. In the YouTube upload above, you'll find me under my YouTube account - YouMelTube - as the top comment reminiscing on this specific phenomenon, she's effectively singlehandedly become the face of the SiIvaGunner artwork tags on sites such as here on Tumblr and on Twitter, at this point only rivaled by Wood Man. Field of Love and Cringe, and all the work that went into it by all of its different talented artists and musicians, is absolutely legendary, and shows that SiIva is well able to continue being impactful past its initial Season 1 channel ending.

With all of that in mind, SING A SONG ABOUT HOPES AND DREAMS is as perfect of an arrangement, as perfect of a celebration as one could ever dream of. BobTheTacocat understands what drew people to the original rip to a mesmerizing degree and remixes it into an equally captivating hyper-pop style, which feels almost like the modern-day equivalent of the 2000s-core nostalgia that Antonymph so successfully evokes. The rip's core vocals remain, yet the arrangement's lead melody as carried by its synths goes in wholly new directions, many times feeling completely disconnected from the Field of Hopes and Dreams track its based on: its a reimagining in the truest sense of the word, channelling the spirit of the original absolutely perfectly.

No matter where it goes, though, its always happy - always celebrating, always proud of what SiIvaGunner has become and is. I'm not ashamed to admit the raw emotions that this arrangement made me feel upon its premiere, and the further emotions the album as a whole gave me. It's the loveletter I never knew I wanted but am now so, so eternally thankful for.

Thank you. Thank you to the SiIvaGunner team, and to the SiIvaGunner fans, the SiIvaGunner discord, and anyone else who has followed this blog, or interacted with it at any point of its 160-rip run. Let's never stop loving rips of the highest quality.

<3