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astoriacolumnstaircase · 2 days ago

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One thing I loved about Superman (2025) is that Superman is absolutely uncool, musically. When Lois says she was a punk and Clark tries to be like me too! and lists bands that are mainstream instead of actual punk, and Lois scoffs at it, I think the truth of Lois’ POV is as important a point of messaging as Clark’s follow up of “maybe that’s the real punk rock” re: thinking everyone is beautiful. Because here’s the thing: Clark isn’t a poser. He’s not trying to fake his way into being a punk, he’s not trying to steal valor or whatever, he earnestly loves those bands and thinks that they are real punk. Being wrong doesn’t make him a poser, it makes him a dork, uncool, an outsider to something he believes he belongs to. I think there’s such a strong tendency in subcultures to judge people who aren’t REAL fans or are mainstream or are too excitable or whatever as not just uncool, but being actively worthy of disdain. It doesn’t matter if they are actually posturing or just not aware of the social mores they’re missing—not getting it seems to mean they deserve to be treated badly. Being the target of that is one of the most alienating things that can happen to a kid, I think, and is one of the most common ways autistic kids get traumatized outside of full abuse.

Clark is not a real punk and he’s too uncool to know it. But when Lois sees Clark’s Mighty Crabjoys posters in his wickedly dated childhood bedroom, it doesn’t make her think less of him or roll her eyes. It’s another step towards realizing she really does love him, because she sees it is earnest love and joy for him. And maybe seeing it in that context of that wood paneling in an old midwestern farmhouse makes it more clear why a kid who grew up in the sticks might think liking that band would make them punk. It’s a moment of sincere love FOR his sincere love, even if it is dorky. Maybe especially because it is dorky.

It’s sort of connected, actually, to the way Eve Teschmacher ends up being pivotal. She is annoying, and overbearing, and probably not a particularly moral person considering she got involved with Lex in the first place. But she’s being abused and that’s not framed as her fault or deserved. She’s also smart in a way that a character like her doesn’t usually get to be. She used the disdain directed at her hyper feminine vanity as a cover for gathering the information needed to unequivocally reveal Lex’s plans to the world. She didn’t just gather that information because Jimmy asked; she already had it, a way to save herself from Lex. And yeah she should have released it sooner, and maybe it was self interest that drove her to start, but that doesn’t invalidate the fact that she ended up saving a lot of people. And you know what, I think it’s crucial that she doesn’t STOP being overbearing and annoying when she’s free of Lex. It wasn’t a facade she put on to survive or to get that information on Lex, which in a girlbossier narrative might have been a dramatic reveal. She still is deeply unpleasant for a lot of people to be around, but she still deserves respect and did incredible good without being “fixed.”

It extends to everybody. Guy is a self-involved and oblivious. Hawkgirl is prickly and disinterested. Mr. Terrific doesn’t do people’s emotions and is irritated at all times by how stupid everyone else is in comparison to him. Lois is bad at relationships and pushy. They all are undeniably human with parts of them that suck.

But being uncool or annoying or obnoxious or prickly or weird doesn’t make you any less worthy of respect or more incapable of kindness and heroism. You don’t have to STOP being any of those things to do good, nor do those things mean you deserve to be treated badly. When Clark tells Lex that his humanity is his strength and Lex’s too, it rings true rather than being corny and empty because every part of the narrative supports it.

The phrases “hope is punk rock” and “kindness is punk rock” get treated as cringe because there they kinda whitewash and elide punk-as-subculutre into something earnest and simple. That criticism isn’t unfounded; if people use it as a way to lionize punk and turn away from the problems in the subculture, that is an issue. But it is worth remembering that most of the time people are using those phrases to uplift hope and kindness, not punk, and that matters. The core idea under them is the core idea under Superman and leftism both, that it doesn’t matter who you are, you are human, and all human beings are deserving of rights, dignity, safety, and respect, and if that goes against the culture and government, then it is particularly important and powerful to be counter-cultural. Clark saying “maybe that’s the real punk rock” is uncool and dorky and doesn’t understand all the nuances of the punk scene and it is also real, and true, and so so important.

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astoriacolumnstaircase · 2 days ago

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Out now on Dropout: go behind-the-scenes of Game Changer's "Fool's Gold" episode - with extended cuts of some of the viral videos, insider info, and more!

Watch the behind-the-scenes featurette here on Dropout

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astoriacolumnstaircase · 2 days ago

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Page 116

Next 💜 Back 🖤 First

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(Author Notes)

Panel 1: They go to bed, snug side by side in a cozy bed, but Laudna is sleeping restlessly.

Panel 2: Her dreams are crowded with nightmares. She dreams of dancing in the woods where she first met Imogen.

Delilah: My darling, have you forgotten?

Panel 3: The scene changes to a stage depicting the alley where she lost control of her powers earlier in the chapter. She is a puppet on red strings being pulled by an unseen hand. Red poppies sprout from the ground at her feet.

Delilah: We are bound, you and I.

Panel 4: Smiling ragdolls of Matilda and two others we saw beside her on the Sun Tree are propped up at a banquet table. Toy lobsters are laid on tiny plates before them, along with a glass of red wine.

Delilah: You are my vessel in life, unlife, and beyond.

Panel 5: The Matilda doll puts her hands to her face in dismay as the other two are lying inert on the table, stuffing spilling out of their open wounds. The plates are empty and the wine is spilled on the tablecloth.

Delilah: Even in death, you cannot be parted from me.

Panel 6: She is back in the field where Delilah’s spirit first inhabited her, but instead of embracing her, the shadowy hands are clutched around her throat, strangling her.

Delilah: For if I go, I will take with me your life, your self,

Panel 7: She is once more dangling listlessly from the Sun Tree, but this time, instead of the dinner party guests she remembers it's Imogen and, vaguely, the other Bells Hells hanging beside her, dead.

Delilah: And everything you hold dear. Who will you turn to then, when all love is gone?

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astoriacolumnstaircase · 2 days ago

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ok note to self i gotta leave the house regularly so that i dont feel like im slowly transforming into an evil fucking shadow clone of myself

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astoriacolumnstaircase · 2 days ago

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Three words writing prompt, please?

"I'm here, honey" + Imodna

hi! i honestly loved this prompt so much I had at least three other idea for little fics, but ultimately went with this one to finally finish a draft that had been sitting for um. a while. so sorry I'm so incredibly late to answering this, but I hope you enjoy nonetheless!

today I offer you 2.2k of canon divergent post-shard c3e78. tomorrow? who knows.

~~~

She ran.

The tunnels of Whitestone welcomed her home with the stench of revolt and rust. The air is stagnant, heavy with the moisture of centuries gone by. It seeps into her skin and dampens her eyelashes.

The roots of the Sun Tree pierce the walls and snag her sleeves. She takes no notice. The echo of leather soles pounding against slick stone floors is harsh against her ears. Water trickles from an unseen source, and she follows it.

The tunnel narrows as she swerves left down an offshoot, toe snagging on a patch of moss. She stumbles, catching herself hard on her hand and sending a lance of pain up her shoulder.

Her vision is clouded, darkness tinging the edges as a mourning veil tangles itself in her hair.

She can’t kill him. She wants to kill them. Her palm presses against her forehead, and she snarls, a raw sound that tears from her throat.

Congealed ink pools in her palm, where the stone has torn a gash through delicate skin. Broken crates line this tunnel, their contents long scavenged. Cobwebs spin from jagged edges as she staggers past.

There is a throbbing behind her eyes and an ache in her chest that threatens to overwhelm her. A fury, a grief, a hunger so strong the force of it nearly sends her to the floor in a wave of dizziness.

She moves on, veering right this time. She wants to kill them. Her tongue itches to feel the hum of his power in her veins. The burn of their flesh against her skin. Delilah seethes within her, demanding, insisting. Bile rises in Laudna’s throat. She screams into the emptiness.

Home.

Down here, deep below the city, she is free to prowl her domain. Free, save those who would chase her out.

The memory stings with the ache of loss. Of having found refuge in the depths with her collection of scavenged oddities. A discarded novel, a chipped crystal vial that still held a wisp of rose perfume. An empty sack of wheat that smelled of her family’s storage cellar. When she closed her eyes, she could see the kind eyes of her father, blood leaking at the corners.

She peels left again, stopping short at a familiar door half-buried in rubble. Lengthened limbs navigate the pile of stone with ease, slipping through the narrow space between the heavy door and the wall. The room beyond is tossed. Broken chairs lay on their sides next to tables with missing legs. Empty feed bags are stacked in the corner, any grain having been consumed by rodents or denizens of the tunnels. A discarded guard’s uniform, stained and moth-bitten, is draped between two overturned tables. Laudna’s wrists weigh heavy with the shackles of betrayal.

Purple flickers behind her eyes.

She keeps moving.

The Parchwood is covered in a layer of frost.

Laudna cannot recall how she got here.

She had wanted to go home, she thinks distantly.

She wants to be warm. She has always wanted to be warm.

Ashton was warm. Scalding, even.

She stalks between skeletal white trees, their barren branches arching skyward. The chill seeps in.

She prowls a familiar path, the rooftops of a changed Whitestone cresting behind her.

Just like old times.

The shadows grow longer.

The hovel is demolished, burned to ash, and its structure is left only partially standing. Light snowfall coats the blackened wood as Laudna tentatively crosses the threshold.

When she wakes, she is cold.

Something tickles her neck, and she grabs for it. Her fingertips come away wet. Residual coxa sticks to her skin. She wipes it on her hair. Her neck aches.

Her hand smells of rot and charcoal. Her nails are embedded with the stuff. Her bed is hard beneath her, and she is sore where her illum pressed against rough wood. She has dried leaves in her hair. They are wet with snowfall. Flurries that drifted through the open window crown her in constellations. A bare shoulder pimples with gooseflesh, and a shiver sets her chest rattling.

She ought to forage. Her supplies are dwindling. Parchwood seasons are harsh, and the frost is settling over the underbrush. She shakes the torpor from her muscles and dusts off her bones.

The bushes have been picked over by man and animal. Bare branches bear no fruit; only withered shells and stems indicate anything was borne at all. Shriveled leaves crunch underfoot. She draws her arms around herself. A stray gust ruffles her skirt and dances between her ankles. Roots catch the gauzy hem.

Travel-weary soles wander deer trails and forgotten paths. Numb toes carve weak grooves into icy mud, and as the sun rises, she ambles, humming, between ancient boughs, filling pockets and pouches with acorns, dried seeds, and pebbles of interesting proportion. The dawn breaks, and a mourning dove coos a lonely vigil. Sun-bright snowmelt glitters in the hollows of the tree roots. The faintest trace of a woodfire drifts past her nose but is lost to the forest. The animals still slumber in their tunnels and burrows, the ground vibrating with the slow life of them.

She wanders, wanders, through the twisting, turning tracks, stopping, starting. She hums old songs, tuneless melodies plucked from memories tucked away to be forgotten in the recesses of a mind burned. They slip from her lips like feathers, soft and drifting on the air, for her to catch with charcoal-and-ash fingers as she walks, weary and aimless, palms pressing against tree trunks.

When the ache in her legs grows too much to bear, she sits in the hole left behind by an uprooted tree with sprawling branches, and she sleeps, warmed, even in the late autumn chill, by sunlight trickling through the canopy and a gentle hand combing through scraggly tresses.

She wakes to the sharp crunch of a branch underfoot, and she freezes. Her body is small, concealed by layers of skirt and dangling roots, and she huddles against the base of the tree, prey quivering. Then:

Something is upon her in a blur. It immobilizes her legs, and she writhes in the damp soil, fear rising like lightning in her throat.

“Wait– ow, just– hold on!” A deep voice grumbles into her skirt. A well-placed kick to the shoulder earns Laudna a grunt of displeasure. “Would you just– Imogen’s gonna fuckin’ kill us if you run off again!”

Pounding footsteps come to a halt beside her, and Laudna stills. A shadow blots the sun. It crouches. Imogen stands over her, breathing hard. Her lips are pursed in a thin line, but her eyes soften when she notices Laudna’s rigidity.

“Let off her, Chet,” she bites.

“Fuckin’– fine,” he grunts, dusting himself off. “Stronger than she looks.” He moves a few paces away.

Laudna? Imogen’s chest heaves. Relief floods off of her in waves.

Laudna’s mind sings, bubbling a discordant note laced with animalistic fear. She shrinks further into the soil at her back, feeling the bite of embedded rocks through her bodice. Sharp nails dig furrows into papery skin, pinpricks of grounding pain, almost pleasant in its predictability.

“Hi, darlin’.” A cocked head and a slight smile that promises sweet nothings. A creased brow and wavering voice betray the weight of concern. “We’ve been lookin’ for you,” Imogen says, “Can you come out?”

It arrives warm, coaxing, like hope brought about by a few days of false spring in Dualahei. It grazes the rough edges of her like lace over a bramble patch. Pieces left fluttering in the breeze or pinned like beetles to a specimen case.

Get me the shard.

No. Laudna thinks resolutely from the safe gloom of her little den amidst the grubs and earthworms. She inches back further and is rewarded with a small shower of dirt. Footsteps shuffle closer, brittle leaves crackling. Her gaze flickers from Imogen to the rest of their friends approaching from the treeline. She lands on the figure in the rear, who creeps closer with hesitant steps.

“How did you find me?” Laudna husks.

“Old Man Bloodhound over here caught your scent.”

Chetney pipes something indistinguishable, and Imogen falls silent a moment before refocusing. She takes in the trembling, mud-dusted form hunched in the dark and frowns. “Let’s get you out of here, huh?” She extends a leather-gloved hand.

Laudna stares at it. A tremor runs through her, and Imogen kneels, warm and steadfast.

“I’m here, honey,” Imogen murmurs, “You’re safe. I promise.”

Laudna, darling, you’re so close. Let me hold it, and I’ll take care of the rest. For us.

“It’s not me,” Laudna husks, “I– she wants me to kill them. I can’t–”

Imogen barks a demand that Laudna doesn’t hear. The veil flickers across her vision, narrowing her focus to Ashton’s cracked face. The thrumming in her chest grows louder.

Laudna warns, “Imogen…”

Imogen snaps again, and Ashton stops, giving a small nod. He reverses his path. The rest of their friends pause, waiting.

Laudna feels Imogen’s inhale, and her fingers come up to grip Imogen’s wrist with lengthened fingertips. Her body shifts, bones fighting for control.

“You’re not her.” “I know.”

“You’re not.” Imogen searches Laudna’s face. “You can control her.”

For us. Just as it has always been.

“I…” Laudna swallows. She tucks her head into her shoulder, pinching her eyes shut. “She’s… she’s hungry.”

“Hold on to my hand, sweetheart,” Imogen insists softly, “Focus on me. I’m here.”

Laudna does, cracking an eye. She takes in the rosiness of Imogen’s cheeks, the chapped skin of her lips where she’s been worrying at them. The rise and fall of the chiffon draped over her clavicle, the gentle curves of her waist. Her hair falls over one shoulder, and her breath clouds in little puffs. She watches Laudna intensely.

“I don’t want to hurt them.” Her voice comes layered in whispers.

“I know.”

Laudna inhales shakily, wind rattling brittle branches. Her bones settle, and her gums cease their throbbing. She falls into Imogen, whose free hand instinctively moves to cup Laudna’s head against her shoulder. She smells of mildew and earth. The tunnels, Laudna realizes faintly. Blunt fingernails gently scratch her scalp, and she shudders. Imogen holds her all the while, murmuring into her hair.

“That’s it. You’re alright,” Imogen whispers. “We were worried about you. Gave me a scare when you didn’t come back last night.”

Ice grips Laudna’s chest. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t– I didn’t mean to make you worry.” She nibbles her bottom lip. Imogen tightens her embrace, soft susurations embedding themselves into Laudna’s skin.

“She’s strong here, huh? Hungry, you said?”

Laudna nods, face still buried in Imogen’s dress. They sit that way, mud chilling Imogen’s knees and worms tickling Laudna’s calves until, at last, Imogen pulls them to their feet.

“C’mon,” she says, tugging gently on their linked hands, “You ready to head back?”

Laudna casts a longing glance toward the thicker part of the woods, back in the direction of the hovel’s crumbling exterior. She thinks of stone castles and vaulted hallways and ghosts that live in woven tapestries. She thinks of pebbles and acorns and blue-tinged toes and a piny breeze that sneaks through the threadbare sleeves of her blouse. She thinks of soft voices like thorns and reassurances and claw-tipped nails in her hair.

Laudna nods minutely. They stand in silence. The pad of Laudna’s thumb worries at her knobby knuckles.

“I’m sorry,” they both blurt, and Laudna ducks her head.

“I’m sorry,” Imogen repeats, “I shouldn’t’ve let you go off on your own. Here, of all places. I should’ve known better.”

The little part of Laudna that still yearns for the aimless, unaccountable roaming of her early decades stings. The greater part of her, the yawning ache of isolation, suns itself in the knowledge that she’s wanted.

“It’s not your responsibility to keep me in check,” Laudna husks, tongue burning.

Imogen tilts her head, considering her words carefully. Laudna rolls an acorn between her fingers, hidden in the folds of her skirt. “No, it isn’t,” Imogen says evenly, and Laudna instinctively braces for the flagellating tail, “but it doesn’t mean you’re on your own.” She plucks a stray twig from Laudna’s hair and tosses it aside.

Laudna’s lips press together. The field of freckles across the bridge of Imogen’s nose creases like wrinkled parchment.

Laudna allows herself to be led into the middle of their group, avoiding their concerned surveillance. Orym offers a reassuring pat on her thigh, Fearne loops an arm through hers, and FCG’s eyes flash brighter when they see her. Ashton has gone ahead. A problem for a later time. Imogen’s arm loops through hers, keeping Laudna pressed against her side. A flicker of shame runs through her, feeling very much like a disobedient child who slipped between the fenceposts.

She waits for the biting comment, the whip-crack remark that will sink her stomach below the layer of plant litter, whispered scathingly from within or sneered sharply from without. But it does not come.

#recommended reading #🥺#oh i love this #Laudna

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astoriacolumnstaircase · 3 days ago

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one if the class swap au Waudnas with... hmmm patina, appraisal, rebuke?

“I just wanted to be helpful.” “To be helpful?” asked the exemplar. “What are you talking about?” “I want—I want to be like you,” said Laudna, surprised in that instant at how much longing felted her voice, aware she had exposed something tender to a stranger who had only just been threatening her with a sword. She should be afraid. The voice certainly was; its apprehension knifed through her. But like a beaten dog offered up to a new owner, she couldn’t help but indulge in hope. “I saw—” The words knotted in her throat. Laudna felt suddenly shy. “I saw what you did at the village. They were so happy you helped them. I’d like that. I want people to be happy to see me too.” -What Doesn't Break

Laudna isn't very good with the sword: her body isn't made for it. By the sixth time her arm bone has snapped in two, dropping the sword with a muffled thud into the leaf litter, the exemplar (she still refuses to tell Laudna her name) rolls her eyes upwards and says: "Well, we'll need to get you armor at this rate. It'll hold you together."

"Like an exoskeleton," Laudna says excitedly. "I could be like a cockroach. With a sword. Do any cockroaches have swords, do you think? Are there cockroach exemplars? Do they have societies, are they kind to each other--"

The exemplar ignores this. It only hurts a little. Outweighing the pain (and she's used to the pain!) is the effervescent, bubbling joy of getting to speak to another person. Not one Laudna made up, not the voice at the back of her skull (which is still sulking) (it seems to think that if it withholds for long enough, Laudna will beg for it to come back) (she won't!), but a person. A person looking at her and seeing her and letting her ride on the back of the horse, a person who lets Laudna hold onto her waist as they ride, a person who's warm even through her armor, a person with a heartbeat, a real heartbeat, someone who has finally come close enough for Laudna to feel their heartbeat.

And it's alright that she hasn't asked Laudna's name. Laudna doesn't mind. It makes sense. The exemplar is still waiting for Laudna to prove rotten -- to crack open and hatch some bilious black smoke that engulfs the world. Knowing Laudna's name would make it harder to put her down. Laudna wouldn't learn her own name either.

Riding on the back of the exemplar's horse transforms Laudna into someone that people are happy to see -- well, it's not that they're happy to see Laudna, it's more that she's caught in the exemplar's aura of light and everyone just assumes she's worthy of love-leftovers. There's plenty to go around, because they're all so happy to see the exemplar -- they run at her with their arms wide open to catch the idea of her in an embrace. They offer her fruit, they braid ribbons into the pony's hair. Children pop out with wooden swords and try their best attempts at swordplay; this always makes the exemplar laugh, which is a sight so dear and lovely that it sends Laudna into paroxysms of devotion. She would do anything to make the exemplar laugh like that, smile like that. She would do anything.

But the exemplar doesn't smile or laugh when she looks at Laudna. Instead her mouth twitches down, her eyes shade over; when she catches Laudna in her periphery she will turn away the fruit, send the children running home again. She will tap her heels (so gently!) into her horse's sides; they'll ride on by.

"You don't have to," Laudna tries at one point, when the exemplar has made camp (a warm fire!) (food!!) and they are both tucked in close to the fire. "I won't...I wouldn't hurt children. Well, I wouldn't hurt anyone. But not children. I quite like children. You don't..." She's tried to say it over and over and it hasn't worked. But this time it will work: "You don't need to be scared of me."

The exemplar takes a stick and pokes the fire; sparks leap out and die in the dirt by her feet. She doesn't answer.

Something stirs in the back of Laudna's mind. Something serpentine: She should be scared of you.

Laudna freezes. Stupid instinct. Like the voice really is a snake, and it can only see her if she moves.

I don't know why you're committed to this, the voice says. It twines like a silk ribbon around Laudna's brain. It won't work. You heard her before: no one will ever love you as you are. Even if you work very very hard and wear the armor and ride a stupid pony. You won't ever be her, Laudna. You'll only be yourself, and none of them will ever love you. Softer, softer: Not like I do.

Laudna shoots to her feet; she pretends not to notice that the exemplar has half-drawn her sword. "I want to practice again," she says brightly. "The sword...things. Forms. Swording. May I?"

The exemplar runs one thumb over the end bit of her sword, self-soothing. Then, flatly: "No."

"What if I use a stick?"

A thoughtful silence. "...alright," the exemplar says grudgingly.

"Oh goodie," Laudna says, and she takes the stick; its tip is still fire-warm. She marches five paces away from the fire, she holds up her sword. On the other side of the sword is a demon, a devil, some silk-shadow thing that doesn't know what love is. She pierces it through. Again. Again. Again. Again.

She's not taking you to get armor, the voice says. Laudna slashes at it -- her arm pops out of its socket -- she shoves it back in, turns that motion into another blade-swing. Ha ha! En garde, evil!

She is taking you back to her temple, the voice says. Its silkiness has gone a bit tattered from exhaustion. She'll gather up her clerics and her paladins, her brothers and sisters in divine light. And they'll unmake you.

Laudna's vision is a little blurry; the shadows look like some monster perched over a child. She banishes it, she smites it, she unmakes it.

It hurts. When divine light sunders you. Are you really such a glutton for pain?

She kills the monster. She kills the monster. The shadows are another monster and she kills it again and again and again.

Are you so eager to die?

Again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and "That's enough," the exemplar says.

Laudna startles, drops the stick. She is heaving for breath; salty black ichor drips down her face, and she tells herself it's sweat. She's sweating from exertion. Never mind that she's never sweat before. She's learning how to do it now. She's changing and growing all the time.

She blinks the sweat out of her eyes and turns to look at the exemplar. She stands between Laudna and the fire; the light illuminates her in gold. Laudna is hungry. Laudna is devout. Laudna could be devout, if the exemplar would only--

"Get some rest," the exemplar says. "We'll be in town tomorrow." She turns and walks back to the fire, sits down again.

Her back is turned to Laudna; she is leaning back on one hand, and the other -- yes -- is hovering just close enough to her sword. That half-inch of bright metal unsheathed.

"And I can start training?" Laudna says. "And I can be like you?"

The exemplar makes a noncommittal sound. In Laudna's mind, the voice says: run. Laudna walks back to her place by the fire; she lies down, she does her best to fall asleep. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. It's tomorrow. Tomorrow they'll make it to town. And then--

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