#(will I actually write her? I don't know)

[egophiliac]

I loved your drawing(and I love your style in general) with Leia in your recent post! If/when you have time can we see more of her in your style? I get so happy whenever I actually see people mention/talk about her and she’s not just forgotten because we didn’t get to see much of her. 😭

thank you! 💙💙💙 Leia/Leah/Lea/whatever is fascinating to me. she is the ultimate unknown. what was she like? how involved (or even aware of any details of the invasion) was she? Silver's basically a physical carbon copy of his biodad, so what did he get from her? like, I understand why the two of them kind of have to stay as these super vague and mysterious figures -- the whole point of them is that their story ended 400+ years ago and they're not really relevant anymore (and. well. the more that gets explained about them, the less that can just kinda be handwaved as "oh the politics were Very Messy") (we can sit here and theorize all day but let us acknowledge that, ultimately, canon gave us almost nothing about them post-Meleanor and we'd just be making things up). I do still wonder about her though! RIP Lea, we never knew you and we probably never will.

actually you know what, as long as we're here, I think I WILL go ahead and just make some stuff up about what Silver might've inherited from her instead.

[soulrox]

No Fly Zone

DPxDC #29

Conner has taken to flying around high above the world, just drifting where the winds take him. He uses this time to just live in the moment and take in the natural beauty of the world.

As he's floating, he hears the distinct sound of music and screaming fans. He slowly pays more attention to the music, a strong female voice is belting out lyrics to a song that resonates with him.

Pinpointing the location the sound is coming from to a small town a few clicks west of where he is. He immediately moves to watch and listen in person. He has to know who is playing and if all their songs are as good as this current one.

The concert is taking place in a park with a completely open area to stand and listen. The concert is packed with teens and young adults. A typical concert, in Conner's opinion. He decides to fly further to the back of the crowd to watch. Conner doesn't really pay attention to the crowd and is focused on the band and the singer. Completely missing several eyebrow-raising things.

"Hey, flying guy! You can't watch from there please move to the designated area for flyers," A man with gravity-defying white hair and piercing green eyes flying near him says while gesturing to an area more to the left of the stage, where several people were flying and enjoying the concert. Most are glowing faintly, and some of them, concernedly, are semi-transparent. "Or you can keep on moving."

"Ah, sorry I was flying around, then heard this music and had to see who it is… So, umm, who is playing? I really love what I've heard so far." The two of them move away from the crowd.

"She's Ember McClain, the best musician from the Realms. As long as you're not here to start anything, you're good."

"Why are you the security here?" Conner purposely tilted his sunglasses, looking him up and down. Thinking to himself that this scrawny twink can't pack that much of a punch.

"Yes, I am. Even before that comment, I could tell you aren't from here if you don't recognize me." the cute twink laughs a little, "I'm Phantom! Manager of this whole thing and security. Making sure Ember sticks to the rules and making sure everyone else is too. This time no one tries to mind-control anyone."

Concerning comments shelved for later. "It seems I'm also unknown if I have to introduce myself. But for a cutie like you, I'll give you anything." Wink, "I'm Superboy, call me Kon. Can I ask more about you? Like, if you have a number I can have?"

Phantom blushes "Danny…..I don't just give my information or number out to some rando. That is lesson one of being a hero. As I'm sure you "Superboy" know this."

"Okay then, tell me more about this band, and you can tell me more about yourself at dinner after."

Conner reappears at the Young Justice base several hours after he normally would, with several bags full of Ember merch. Signed copies of the albums, posters, shirts, and even a water bottle. He gives a shirt to every YJ member. His phone is full of selfies and videos from the concert and after, as well as the number of a very cute boy, with a date set for Friday night.

[ch1zzie]

Julie💔

With no words or dootels

Dootels

Words

[lilliferwashere]

Made some YA style covers from my existing art. As a treat. And as shameless self promo.

Sunshine & Saccharine: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62383159

Moonlight & Melancholy (companion story to S&S): https://archiveofourown.org/works/64080451

[beargregor]

wait i'm curious, what makes you say that gregor doesn't like everyone else (if i read that post right)? just curious since i've never seen anyone else say that

i don't necessarily think gregor dislikes everyone else at lcb but i do think that gregor is an incredibly petty person that isn't nearly as close to the rest of the sinners and even outright dislikes some of them cough cough rodya cough cough which a lot of people just Refuse to see because he's as much of a doormat as he is. there's several examples i could get into to try and prove my point however i'll just focus on what i personally think to be the biggest ones.

additionally, this is going to be kind of long, so i'm adding a read more. read more! read it. sorry for being so wordy. i have several diseases.

Pt1. gregor is the type to try and get along at least decently with everyone, especially if he gets a good first impression from them.

this is less a point in favor of gregor's distance w/ the rest of the sinners and more just a contributing factor to it. once again there's several examples i could point to here but i think the most in your face one happened in canto I with yuri, as several people have pointed out. even before gregor comes clean about growing attached to her as quickly as he did because she reminds him of his sister, we get this interaction.

i'll go ahead and make the disclaimer now that i don't necessarily think gregor is the most reliable of narrators, especially when it comes to his feelings and interactions with most people, but from the way he acts when the topic of yuri comes up (and the way we still see him act even all the way up to c7, nearly a whole year after yuri's death) i don't see reason to question his sentiment here. gregor immediately got that aya and yuri were close, potentially even taking note of their traded belts, and went out of his way to get something nice for yuri despite hardly knowing her.

i feel like a lot of people have forgotten as much, especially since it's been so long since c1, but gregor actually spent a good bit of season 1 doing the exact same thing with the other sinners! gregor reads a connection between him and ishmael pretty quickly despite getting off to a rocky start

mostly because gregor can tell that ishmael is pretty sardonic in a very similar way to him. there's been multiple instances where ishmael and gregor have essentially expressed the same sentiment at different moments, most notably gregor's little argument after ishmael got shot with a decay ampule in c4

and ishmael's response to pilot talking about self-sacrifice in c5

i could go ahead and pull up more examples, but in general pm has gone out of their way to show us that gregor and ishmael are pretty similar, so it makes sense for gregor to assume that they're friends, right?

this will be pushpin 1. keep note of this for Later.

ishmael's only the first sinner we see gregor trying to do this with in s1, we also see him try it out with heathcliff, sinclair, and ryoushuu

he's tried to get along with charon, being one of very few sinners that we've seen actually try to establish a connection with her at all

even rodya, despite my insistence that gregor doesn't like her nearly as much as the fandom thinks he does

all of these seem pretty fine and dandy, right? sure it frequently leans towards self-degradation, micromanaging, and commiseration, but gregor can at least be pretty chummy with most of the sinners, can't he?

Pt2. hell's chicken was more than just comic relief guys please

i'm fully aware that this is quite the hot take, but i think hell's chicken deserves a lot more credit for character writing than the fandom gives it. hell's chicken gave us foreshadowing for several events, such as the donqui bloodfiend reveal

heathcliff's distortion in c6 (as well as hong lu's highly speculated distortion at some point in the future)

and ryoushuu and sinclair's continued connection by making him the odd one out on her team

which, hey! that implies something about gregor's odd one out, don quixote, too, doesn't it? yes. yes it does. that's pushpin 2. keep note of that for later.

speaking of pushpins, hey! that's pushpin 1!

splitting into teams is one of the major events in hell's chicken, and most of the sinner's choices are either motivated by very little, backhanded, or motivated primarily by not wanting to be on the opposite leader's side. i didn't include all of the picks, just because i feel like including most of them already gets this across, but i think gregor took one major thing from this: most of the sinners, when push comes to shove, will only side with gregor when they refuse to or can't take his opponent's side.

now, don't get me wrong, i'm fully aware that this is primarily intended to be comedic relief, but when gregor is being described as having his trust broken by ishmael or nearly crying because no one on his team properly sided with him for him, i feel like it's pretty fair to read into this.

something that i think is pretty important to remember in conjunction with this is that we know that gregor is the type to hold a grudge, both from his general attitude towards the G corp soldiers in c1 as well as his continued distaste for vergilius

even beyond the splitting into teams of hell's chicken, the sinners have given gregor plenty of reasons to feel bitter. i feel like this is something people have noticed but haven't really put a finger on, but it's kind of wild just how often the rest of the sinners make gregor the butt of the joke

and sure, we could argue that a fair few of these aren't really made with any ill intent. quite a bit of it could have been meant as harmless teasing, but with gregor being more sensitive than most, it coming from nearly all sides, and as often as it does? yeah, i think he's prone to taking it a bit personally.

Pt3. yes i do still think gregor was the third most important character in canto VII you guys gotta hear me out okay

of course, all of this leads up to the bit of the story i highlighted, doesn't it? c7? i totally get why people haven't really picked up on all the gregor things i did in it, seeing as they were mostly not *directly* said about him or by him.

personally, i think that gregor's distaste for talking about himself on any serious level and thus leading to him getting sort of "sidelined" narratively (which i take issue with that claim, but still. it's effective for getting what i mean across atm) is supposed to lead players to take a deeper look at the times gregor gets held up to other characters and compare and contrast what's being said about them by the matchup. as i showed earlier with his immediate latching onto ishmael, i think this is something gregor himself is at least partially aware of too.

so, that begs the question, who was gregor compared to in canto VII that makes me think it's one of the most critical pieces in understanding his character?

really, i'd like to avoid getting too lost in the analysis of this canto specifically, since i'd like to do a proper post about this later, but i figure i can bury the lede a little before doing it properly.

c7 features several characters being made to perform in sansón's play, acting out the relevant backstory for this segment of the plot. a lot of these characters have rather direct, degrading reasons for playing the roles they do.

outis, a character with an inflated ego who wants her journey to have a purpose, is made to play an aimlessly wandering villager with a single line.

hong lu and ryoushuu, two characters for whom families and the expectations placed upon them are likely going to play a major role, are made to play bloodfiends.

rodya, a character who resents her lot in life and is constantly shown to be eager to leave her destitution behind her and become someone special, is made to play a helpless villager that's too poor to even offer any money to the hero that saves her.

heathcliff, a character that has spent most of his life getting dehumanized by comparing him to beastly animals, is made to play a literal bear whose sole purpose in the plot is to get beat up and then quickly left by the wayside.

sinclair, a character that has two opposed parties essentially treating him as a macguffin to procure for their side, is made to play the character who was arguably the catalyst for this entire canto, not to mention playing a decently major role in ruina.

our star don quixote is made to play her father, the first kindred, but there's someone by their side the entire time, isn't there? don quixote's dear, steadfastly loyal companion. a character which don quixote has tasked themself with getting to come out of their shell?

hello again, pushpin 2.

gregor has been made to play our unreachable star, sancho. someone had to, of course. you can't really tell a story without it's main character, now can you?

now, i should once again give a disclaimer. i am not trying to say that i think adapting what happens to donqui/sancho in c7 to gregor is the road pm is going to take here, not only would that toe a bit past the line of foreshadowing, but it'd also just amount to rehashing that plotline again, which i don't think would make for a particularly exciting story.

what i DO think is that we can take a lot of the things that are said to either directly be the case for sancho and use them to inform how we see gregor.

and god, does playing sancho have some fucking implications for our favorite ossan archetype.

starting off, the earliest moment we get to see of sancho is quite literally her just waiting for death to take her in a pile of ashes.

which, i should remind everyone, is actually pretty damn close to what happens to gregor's literary counterpart at the end of the metamorphosis. gregor samsa experiences one final breaking point that pushes him over the edge and makes him decide to just wait for starvation to take him.

gregor and sancho both consider themselves to no longer be human, something which sancho goes out of her way to highlight repeatedly throughout the canto and gregor is quick to get defensive on her behalf for when outis starts really tearing into her

sancho spends quite a lot of this story denying herself the joys of community and friendship, despite knowing that, even with the rest of the sinners frequently making jokes at her expense and outright insulting her, they were things that she desperately craved.

and, while this is getting into my "outis is a red herring meant to distract us from gregor's eventual betrayal" theorizing, i also think it's worth noting for this discussion that sancho's fellow kindreds, her family, all seem to be under the impression that she dislikes them and ultimately her departure was an act of betrayal

and that, despite gregor being one of LCB's resident mood makers and attempted conflict de-escalators, one of the sinners that's most prone to making appeals to the bonds they've all forged together, only him and faust remained silent during everyone's speech

so yeah, i think there's quite a lot of little details and hints building up to the reveal that gregor's not quite as fond of everyone as he presents himself to be. i do think a lot of this ultimately comes down to gregor getting in the way of his own happiness, similarly to donqui, particularly because he's been frequently portrayed as something of a self fulfilling prophecy, especially by giving him as many christ allegories as they have by way of priest and garden of thorns. gregor is convinced that the rest of the sinners don't like him because he's not convinced anyone could like him, so he convinces himself that he hates them because why should he care if someone that he hates hates him too?

a lot of this ultimately ties back to my personal interpretation of what happens in the metamorphosis as well as my own theories regarding all the times gregor has made weird callbacks and references to lobcorp and ruina, but yeah. i think about this guy and his deeper characterization a fairly normal amount, i think.

to end this off i'll highlight one of my favorite little "gregor is fucking seething and trying so hard to keep it cool" moments, in the credits CG for c7 we see rodya teasing him by drawing a little horse on his window and actively pointing and laughing at it, which gregor really doesn't seem all too pleased about.

i personally think this ties into the other cruel part of sansón forcing gregor to play rocinante, which is the more literal "he's actually just straight up playing rocinante" side of things. gregor was quite literally made to play something less than human, less than even animal really, as he was reduced to nothing more than the shoes don quixote wore as she got to play the leading role. sansón directly makes jokes about gregor being nothing more than shoes in the play twice, which adds to this reading, i think.

this, imo, really plays into the adaptation of the metamorphosis! i've seen a lot of readings for the book that posit that, despite being the protagonist, gregor samsa can't really be considered the main character due to nearly everything he experiences in it being used to further his family's character development at his expense, which i think fits nicely with limbus gregor seemingly having the most said about him through indirect means by holding him up to other characters. also it's rodya carelessly making fun of His Big Major Insecurities™ again like she did in c1 which i always find fun. rodya i love you but god you're the worst.

[screwpinecaprice]

Sometimes I see old doodles and I forgot the context. Pretty sure this was a human AU but I forgot if Spinel was adopted, a cousin, or a half sister. And what 'it' were they talking about????

[hitlikehammers]

PART 2/2: in which lock-picking⛓️‍💥 is 100% a valid love language, and waking up with ✨Steve Harrington✨ was NOT the future (exactly. maybe. ish.)

...but waking up in a hospital bed just might be ♥️

<<< last time: And Eddie thinks that’s highly fucking debatable—he’s not sure where it comes from, because it’s a little out of place, Eddie didn’t say anything but maybe he’s just that transparent, the heart of him so quickly, so completely, and if that’s the case then it’s entirely fucking debatable because Eddie thinks he’s going to burst, splinter like a starburst, glorious in the unmaking for how big this thing that’s building in him feels, how certain he is that it’s about to break his ribs and he fucking looks forward to it, so no: Steve doesn’t love most because he can’t, because Eddie is overcome with this feeling and he, he— He’s drifting, because Steve’s heat is a heady fucking drug, and his heartbeat’s a metronome, a lullaby against Eddie’s back and it’s instinct, it’s unquestionable when he shimmies tighter into Steve’s hold and sighs the weight of the world out between his lips because… Because goddamnit, this feels right.

OR: y'know. Eddie thought he was dying in the Upside Down but then he's waking up in the future, in bed with Steve Harrington like what the fuck

Eddie comes to—again: un-fucking-expected—with the same sensation of his ribs snapping, the pain of it a dull thing he thinks he can just float through because his heart’s so gone on the impossible possibility of some future imaginary day where he, where Steve, where they—

“Eddie?”

Wait.

Wait, that’s…okay.

Back up.

He tries to take in what his senses are willing to offer him: something starchy, itchy against his skin, both sides—definitely not the sheets from the bed he’d just felt visceral underneath him. Pressure and aching at his chest: but less sweet the longer he focuses on it. Stinging and the pull of maybe-bandages, maybe-sutures, maybe both and something deeper, like…oh, wow, fuck, it’s entirely possible his ribs are already broken. His heart still feels full, but also scared, unsure, wrong-footed as more and more little clues seep into his consciousness, before maybe the clearest of them all: a shrill little beep that’s fast, like embarrassingly fast—

A monitor.

He draws a shaky breath—iodine, like, burning levels as he inhales and holy fucking shit, he’s in a goddamn hospital.

He’s, did he…

Is this what Steve meant, when he said ‘wake up’? Did Eddie…

Did Eddie fucking survive?

It’s in the spiral of that thought that Eddie clocks the same voice that jarred him out of his own head…in his own head, before. With the fancy sheets and the warmth and the home and—

What…what if it wasn’t in his head at all—

But his body, his pulse recognizes that voice as safety. As…rightness incarnate.

“Oh fuck,” and that’s the Steve Eddie knows best, right there, a little breathy and a little pitchy for frayed nerves and constant worry and the weight of the fucking world to make sure everyone—everyone else—makes it out as okay as possible.

And it’s in thinking that, that Eddie recognizes what Steve-in-his-headin-the-future-in-his-dream-in-his-maybe-not-quite-death-hallucination meant, when he’d said Eddie’s eyes softened. Because Steve’s heart on his sleeve, in his eyes, had looked peaceful, then. Content, even.

Not so frantic. Not so…scrambling.

Still just as blinding, though.

“Thank fuck, you’re awake,” Steve half gasps, a tiny clattering against the tile floor vying to draw Eddie’s gaze away but there was genuinely nothing in the whole goddamn universe that could take Eddie’s eyes off of Steve just now, those lips parted ever so slightly, cheeks that tiny bit rosy, pulse maybe-maybe-not visible just below the bandages on his neck.

He’s beautiful.

“What do you need?” Steve’s leaning closer, hands reaching but then kinda fluttering, kinda hovering, not sure where to touch and even if they knew the answer, kinda like they’re not sure if they can touch in the first place, yet all Eddie can do when he sees them, when he feels the shift in the air for how close they are; all Eddie can do is remember what it’s like to be pressed close to Steve’s body, to feel Steve’s arms around his chest, like they’re keeping him.

“What can I do,” Steve asks, so earnest and Eddie’s pulse does a little skip for it, how good it feels; “I—”

And Steve’s eyes are already big, just short of pleading, darting to the corners of the room maybe for water, maybe for a button to call someone to help more than he can—as if anyone can help more than Steve can, just now, because Eddie’s waking up from what it feels like to have Steve, and the most pressing possible thing in the world just now is SteveSteveSteve, near enough to feel, to breathe in—

Steve’s eyes are already big, though, is the thing, even before the full-on fucking crash of something to the floor makes him freeze. Eddie tries to peer down, winces as it pulls to much at…everything, kind of, Jesus H., but he hurts everywhere, and…

“The hell were you doing?” he asks in the absence of being able to see because…metal. Metal had hit the floor, from the height of probably-the-bed, after Steve had pressed into the mattress, shifted the weight, and then he’d blinked all owlish and adorable: culpability for whatever he’d been up to written all over his gorgeous fucking face.

“Umm,” Steve chews at his lip a little, eyes peeking up through his lashes, that look that makes Eddie weak and wobbly at basically every juncture it’s possible to tremble at like that, but he doesn’t duck away; he doesn’t even blush. He’s not…whatever he was doing—and Eddie’s range of motion is fucked, he’s already super well aware of that shit when he even tries to move to see the floor, to follow the sound—but whatever Steve was doing, he’s unrepentant. But in a way where he maybe recognizes that other people would have been less brazen.

Eddie’s wrist tingles out of nowhere—weird, when all of him is already kinda in a sort of dull, narcotic-shrouded pain—and he frowns, glances down at least that far and notices the slightest ring of red that’s less angry, not attached to bite marks and broken skin, and he has the wildest thought cross his mind just then, and he steels himself to crane his neck as far as he can, to limit the strain he’ll put on his middle because now he needs to see, because he kinda knew before he cut the sheets and ran into the fray that coming out on the other side meant life behind bars if there was any life at all, yet here he is, increasingly seeming like this is real, and this is his ‘other side’, and…

He’s just in a fucking hospital. He’s…he’s here, and he’s, he’s not…he’s not in fucking chains.

And it stings like a bitch, and Steve’s a second away from stopping him, reaching for him and pressing him safely back onto the the bed, but Eddie gets the glimpse he needs. Recognizes the shape on the floor, shiny steel against the scratched-up linoleum.

“Were you,” Eddie traces the ridges of his teeth with his tongue, because there are layers to what he’s about to ask; “were, umm, were you picking the,” and the first little clatter from before makes more sense if he’s right, and if he’s right, well, fuck.

It’ll be hot as hell, if he’s right.

“That?” Eddie tilts his head toward the floor because: cuffs. What he’d seen, what had fallen: handcuffs. On the floor. And they’d have had to have been not on the floor, and probably on him before, and so, he—

“Possibly,” Steve answers with a straight face, as unapologetic as ever, maybe more; maybe even defiant, and oh, wow. Steve Harrington picking his fucking handcuffs, setting his stupidly-quickly-lovesick ass free.

Hot as fuck; seriously.

“How positively criminal of you, Harrington,” Eddie grins half-maniacal, feels the stretch of it burn against a cut that’s gotta run half the span of his cheek but fuck it, the warmth flooding him is undeniable, is incredible—he’s giddy all of a sudden, straight to his bones.

“S’nothing on hot-wiring,” Steve shrugs, like it’s not fucking everything; “but I wasn’t,” and Steve takes a deep breath before he squares his shoulders, looks at Eddie straight-on and shit, if he thought the warmth in him up to now was something?

It’s kinda got nothing on what consumes him under those eyes.

“I wasn’t going to let you wake up fucking…shackled.”

And goddamn if the fire in that voice, those words, doesn’t light Eddie up like burning, doesn’t shake him to the core and then blanket him in sureness and the kind of protection he didn’t think really existed.

Save that he does kinda think it’s exactly what this man’s made of; made for.

And Eddie can’t escape the certainty rising in his veins and pumping, fierce and unshakable, that he wants—more than maybe anything—to be the one to give that same safety, that same promise of something unwavering and permanent and beyond question, right back to Steve.

“You’re an innocent man,” Steve leans in then, emphatic with it; “you’re a goddamn hero,” and he means it, holy shit, he believes that:

“Like hell I was just gonna,” and he shakes his head, like the idea is just that preposterous; like he cannot even consider anything but Eddie being free, and okay, and here, and…

Eddie’s struck with the sudden slap of realization across the fucking face that he couldn’t have gotten topside by himself. That someone had to get him from the hellscape to here. And of the able bodies in the Upside Down, no matter how strong the girls were, only one could have wrestled him through that gate. Only one could have…whatever he maybe needed, between this bed and that bat-strewn ground, it was, Steve would have been, he’d have—

The force his heart trips, then��leaps with, is fucking cataclysmic. Eddie’s honestly surprised it doesn’t just tear out from his throat then and there.

“Plus they’re in the process of finishing the paperwork to make it all official, dropping the charges and all that, clearing your name,” Steve gestures vaguely in the air, like it’s all routine, the feds and the cops sweeping shit under the rug but then he remembers all the side comments he’d collected in the back of his mind these last few days about the ‘last time’ and then ‘the time before that’ and fuck all also the first time—

Maybe it is, just…sick and twisted and harrowing and heartbreaking routine.

“They’re just really fucking slow,” Steve smiles at him, all small and devastating and…

And okay, so that overwhelming urge to be a constant in Steve Harrington’s life, safe next to his heart kinda for always, zero to forever in half-a-blink?

Eddie knew he wanted, when he threw his vest at Steve’s bare chest more for Eddie’s own fucking sanity than anyone’s modesty, but it was all washed in the hopeless-helpless colors of desperation, of why not when I won’t see tomorrow; and now.

Now, all Eddie wants is tomorrow. Every tomorrow. No tomorrows without this man. Without what he saw, how it felt: what he knows in his marrow loving him would be.

It’s probably that conviction etching into his cells that makes makes him softer, a little weepy around the edges; drives him to need through the next words that escape:

“Steve,” Eddie breathes, wishes Steve were just that little bit closer so that the distance he can reach could reach him:

“Thank you.”

“Of course,” Steve waves him off almost, like he doesn’t think everything he is, everything he’s done is monumental. Not just the cuffs but with the cuffs like the cherry on top of how Eddie would—will, if he’s given the chance—devote all that he has and all that he is to making Steve happy. To making him as calm and warm and loved as Eddie could feel in that bedroom, in his head or in the future or on death’s fucking door.

“I mean,” Steve starts, and Eddie can already feel how he’s angling to downplay the thing that’s only swelling, building, growing under Eddie’s own ribs and, well: no.

No, Eddie won’t be standing for that.

“Stevie,” and Steve’s gravitated wordless just close enough for Eddie to be able to brush his fingertips against Steve’s wrist, to curl and pull his hand into Eddie’s grasp, palm splayed above Steve’s knuckles, holding. Keeping.

“Thank you.”

And Steve stills a little, stares at him like he can see what’s tucked up tight and dear in Eddie’s chest and maybe he can, because his voice is feather-light and a little bowled-over. A little…a little awed.

“You’re welcome.”

So yeah, maybe he can see what’s in Eddie’s chest, less tucked in this moment now than fucking, like…

Blooming.

“Do you believe there’s anything waiting when we die?”

Eddie’s gonna blame the frantic blossoming warmth coursing through him for the way he blurts that shit out with no preamble, like maybe the flowering wonder of it all pushes it out without permission, sweet on the back of his tongue but heavy because it matters so much; because it’s all just nostalgia.

For now.

“What?” Steve gapes a little, sounds dumbfounded; maybe a little wary. Fearful.

His hand’s still held under Eddie’s, though, so it’s only natural the way Eddie lifts his fingers and presses them palm-to-palm like it means something.

“Do you?”

“I…don’t know,” Steve swallows hard enough the follow down the taut line of his throat, fucking mesmerizing.

So maybe the way Eddie licks his lips before he says anything more isn’t…isn’t just for the sake of the topic and its weight, is all he’s saying.

“I,” and Eddie doesn’t really know where he’s going, here, or else: he knows exactly where he’s going.

He’s just not totally sure the path he’s planning to chart along the way for getting there.

“When we were down there, and I was telling you to go after Wheeler,” which yeah, okay, surprise direction there, weird little detour, but…it doesn’t feel wrong.

Which means, if it’s right instead: then that’s everything that is Steve in Eddie’s lungs for breathing, in the chambers of his heart. So he leans into it.

Squeezes Steve’s fingers laced together with his.

“Eddie,” Steve starts, sounds tired, spent, and Eddie was never going to let that happen; no matter where he’s going, or leading them down the path of his revelations, the truth etched new but also deep in his bones like it was only waiting to be found and known.

“It was because that’s what I wanted. For me. I wanted to,” and his breath catches on a little chuckle, so light and choked and a little hysterical as he adds, giddy and a little bashful all together at once:

“Unambiguously, umm,” and he trails a little, wants to hide behind his hair just a touch but to do that would require a broader capacity to move in the first place and more, so much more: it would mean letting go of Steve’s hand.

So: absolutely not.

Especially not when Steve’s gone full dropped-jaw gaping at him, his fingers in Eddie’s grasp twitching like he’s confused, like maybe there’s part of him short-circuiting, and Eddie feels his exhales tremble when he finally blinks, finally tilts his head and takes Eddie in at a new angle before he asks, genuine and not just a little lost:

“Seriously?”

And Eddie…Eddie’s actually never been more serious in his life, so.

“Like,” and he circles Steve’s knuckles delicate-like with his thumb: “I wanted the chance, to try, I guess, yeah.”

And he doesn’t know if he’s risking everything to own it, even if he’s owning just a sliver of the breadth and depth that he feels, but he does know unequivocally that he wouldn’t hold it back if given the choice, the opportunity to do it over and not show his bloody-beating heart on display.

A bloody-beating heart that’s moving quicker, slamming harder against his chest but…that actually feels like the only correct thing it could do. Because this merits it.

This kinda is his whole fucking heart.

“Do you still?”

It takes Eddie a longer string of seconds than he’d prefer to own to, to process the words as having meaning, no matter that he doesn’t fucking understand what they’re aiming at.

“What?”

“Want,” and Steve’s the one squeezing Eddie’s hand now, turning a little to graze at the line of his veins at the wrist; “the chance.”

And he says it deceptively casual, despite how he’s staring at their hands, determinedly not meeting Eddie gaze as Eddie gets his chance at the gaping.

“Fuck yes,” Eddie finally huffs on something not unlike unabashed fucking joy, save that this thing he’s feeling is so much bigger, and when Steve looks up, meets his eyes and his own glimmer, shine so bright and brim with such disbelief, but so much stronger and with such hope, Jesus.

Eddie can’t help the giggle that bubbles out of him. Like his whole fucking soul gets shaped into a single breath of exultant delight.

And they both hold to one another, trace across skin and map the lines and dots and scars, and Eddie’s not stupid, he knows this isn’t how it works but…

But he’d still bet money on the fact that the way he’s touching Steve, so innocent and so quietly intimate, is healing his wounds, shoring up his weaknesses and stitching him up fuller, better, breath by shared-sacred breath.

It’s heady as fuck. It’s exquisite.

“Why’d you ask me about when we die?”

Steve’s the one to break the still, and even that’s not breaking anything, really; he speaks so soft. He’s stroking down from Eddie’s thumb back and forth.

It’s not breaking anything.

“I saw something,” Eddie whispers, not sure what reaction that’ll get, and Steve’s staring at their hands again, marveling really, so Eddie can’t read any hint save for the crinkled furrow in his brow.

“But you didn’t die.”

Which isn’t the reaction he thinks he expected, even if Eddie couldn’t name what he did expect. And it’s also not a revelation he thought he’d receive.

“Not at all?”

Because he’s genuinely surprised. He at least figured he’d flatlined like…long enough to have visions of absolute and total domestic bliss and shit.

But Steve’s shaking his head decisively, holding on to Eddie just a little bit tighter.

“You had a pulse, whole way to he hospital,” he tells Eddie, voice gone a little hoarse; “it wasn’t strong but,” and Steve looks up at him, and fuck, those eyes are too shiny now and Eddie doesn’t want that, he doesn’t want his Steve to hurt, he—

“I fucking held you,” Steve croaks and oh, oh he’s shaking, Jesus—

“I kinda,” and he swallows with a click Eddie can hear, around a throbbing pulse Eddie can see, wants nothing more than to soothe with his lips against that tender skin; “I kinda had to make sure, so,” and the hand that’s not holding Eddie’s comes up, trembling as he reaches toward Eddie’s chest:

“Kept my hand pressed, just,” and his voice gives, and he looks up at Eddie with something like devastation, begging something like permission because he doesn’t know that everything that Eddie is, is his.

But he will.

He will know.

“Yeah?” Eddie breathes out, holds Steve gaze as he nods, as he tries to make it clear that anything Steve needs is his, and then some.

It takes a second, but the shine in those eyes finally shifts, finally brightens and then Steve’s breathing’s made of tremors, but his hand finds Eddie’s chest and sends something sparking like lighting through him just as the whole of Eddie feels immediately like he’s home.

And Steve’s hand on his chest feels exactly like it did in their future bed, in their future room, in their future life.

Their always love.

“Yeah,” Steve whispers, then takes a moment, palm splayed wide just above Eddie’s bandages, before he’s gripping Eddie’s wrist with the other hand a little harder:

“It’s so fast,” he exhales like it holds the whole world and then some; he wonders at just Eddie’s heartbeat under his touch and god.

God, but Eddie…Eddie couldn’t have imagined he’d ever feel like this. Let alone feel like maybe it’s mutual, maybe it’s real, maybe he can keep it and stay in this feeling for forever.

“Fuck yeah it is,” Eddie murmurs, then he chuckles, inhales deep maybe just to better feel the weight of Steve’s hand; “making up for the lost opportunity, y’know,” and fuck, all he wants is to be able to lean, to kiss the pout of those lips, to taste what it means to love somebody like he’s never done before.

“Making up for what it missed the last time your hand was there to feel it.”

And Steve’s hand above his thrumming heart twitches just a little, but never flags or makes to move, to leave, and Eddie thinks that he’d be fine if he lived the rest on his days with Steve like that, near enough that he could press a hand to Eddie’s heart at all times and just…just know that it’s his.

Because maybe it’s sudden—it’s definitely quick—but Eddie’s never known anything like he knows this.

“Eddie,” Steve finally whispers, a question and a claim and a means of cradling Eddie to his heart, somehow, for how swathed in light and affection Eddie feels in that moment, in just the shape of his name like it’s never been spoken before.

“I saw the future,” Eddie blurts out in a rush, breath coming a little quicker and heart-under-Steve’s-hand pounding harder. “Maybe. I don’t know, I mean, it sounds so stupid when I say it out loud but it felt so,” but then he looks into Steve’s eyes again and Steve is listening, Steve’s maybe doesn’t think he’s crazy, so he feels safe enough to say with his whole fucking chest:

“It felt real, Stevie.”

“What was it?” Steve asks, so quiet, so gentle like he doesn’t want to disturb this thing either, like he doesn’t need to hear it spelled out yet to know it’s delicate, the most important thing in the world, which fuck yeah it is, even as it cracks and chokes for the flood of feeling around it when it presses up from Eddie’s chest:

“Us,” Eddie breathes it out like the precious truth it genuinely fucking is:

“It was us.”

And Steve doesn’t say anything, but his eyes glimmer all the more, swimming with a riot of emotion to a degree than Eddie feels drowned in awe just to see it, and his hands on Eddie hold tighter, more fervent, devoted like a pledge for the way it runs through Eddie’s blood and sings in his veins:

“Even if it wasn’t real,” but Eddie’s doesn’t believe that, not really, not in his heart of hearts where it all pounds into the crevices that map Steve’s touch; “even if I wasn’t seeing the actual future,” and maybe he wasn’t, maybe that wasn’t their future, and maybe he’ll never know, but what he does know, is—

“It felt right, Steve.”

He knows that clearer than he knows the sky is blue.

“It was just a few minutes,” Eddie flounders a little, mostly because he remembers how good it was, written indelible into how much he wants, here and now:

“But I have never felt anything so right.”

He breathes, shaky and shallow and too fucking fast, but then Steve starts stroking his palm along the unmarked spaces of his chest, back and forth over the gallop of his heart like he means to stay there. Like he could ever want to keep.

“Well,” Steve whispers, his eyes on the path of his hand to make sure he doesn’t draw any pain—as if he ever could—until he knows the safe route over and back, again and again, and then he looks up, catches Eddie’s eyes and locks there, doesn’t pin so much as holds, holds, holds.

And good fucking god, Eddie feels it glisten through him like starlight; Eddie feels remade before Steve’s leaning in, lower than to meet Eddie’s mouth but then he’s pressing his lips to the dip between Eddie’s collarbones, holding there, breathing like he means to savor, like he means to cherish, like he means to, to…

To stay.

And Eddie’s heart’s under that hand and those lips all at once, wholly Steve’s while it quivers like a riot, while it leaps as Steve changes the world, writes their fucking future where his mouth drags wet and warm and ardent and there’s nothing in it at all that can be anything other than at least on the way to love as he breathes, fucking vows:

“We gotta try, then, don’t we?”

♥️

>>>also on ao3✨

for @penny00dreadful 🖤 still very fucking sorry it's this late

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divider credit here and here

[mamawasatesttube]

can't sleep so im thinking about sb94 again, as one does. sometimes i see fans talk about reworking tana into a completely different and wholly inoffensive character in response to the fact that kesel [somehow, inadvertently?] made the only woc in the main cast a sexual predator to a white boy [because he seemingly didn't think women could prey on boys, i guess? but that's another post entirely] and i have to say... like, as a poc in fandom i understand the urge, but as a stickler for characterization i really don't care for those concepts, personally.

one of tana's core character traits is ambition. even if you cut out the entire romance plot (which, imo, changing this changes a lot about kon's early character arc), one of her most consistent traits is that she is focused on her career. when faced with the moral dilemma of knowing vinnie edge hired the stinger to attack kon for publicity, but also knowing that whistleblowing would cost her her job, she chose to keep silent. while this is an understandable choice in that she was 23 and new at her job and therefore not in a good position to negotiate while being essentially blackmailed about it, the fact that this plot gets dropped after rots makes it read like despite leaving wgbs, she chooses to never come forward about it. add that to the way she consistently uses kon as an easy source of stories she gets first access to, and that she justifies this to herself a lot, and, well, i think that makes for a much more interesting character beat than a more sanitized version of her. i think it's very possible to have a character who is selfish and ambitious and wants to protect herself first and foremost, while also wanting to believe she is a good person, and struggling with her denial and her ability to talk herself into things she thinks she might regret, who does genuinely bad things, without making her into an offensive stereotype, and i find that much more faithful to her existing characterization than rewriting her from the ground up to become someone who does nothing wrong. (i also don't think it's that easy to say tana fits the predatory woc stereotype as all, but that's also another post.)

the issue with her being the singular woc on the cast and also being a predator does exist, though, and my thought process is more like... okay. a woman of color can do anything a white man can do. that includes massively sucking as a person sometimes. i think that, re: tana, there's two things to say on that front:

1) fandom and the internet in general have a tendency to jump on the idea that someone who does something wrong and hurts someone else is a bad person forever and forever marred by it. i do not believe that this view coheres with ideas of restorative justice, which i personally feel strongly about. this includes crimes people find distasteful to think about, such as grooming: i think it is completely possible to have tana be a character who, by convincing herself that kon wants this relationship, and it's good for her career, so really she isn't doing anything wrong, ends up really hurting kon, AND at the same time to have her be a well-rounded individual who is capable of growing up a bit more, realizing she made mistakes and hurt someone she did genuinely care about, and grappling with what that means now. like, her being fridged prevented any story dealing with the ramifications of her and kon's relationship, but to me, the idea of her having to deal with her actions is something far more interesting to think about than if she never did them. whether or not she actually grows as a person and admits fault, or if she doubles down on denial, etc, could all be interesting character choices, and are also very human responses to guilt. a lot of people just have this kneejerk response to dehumanize any character (particularly woc) associated with sexual crimes, grooming, etc, but i think that really is dodging the uncomfortable truth that a) no crime, no matter how heinous, merits the dehumanization of the perpetrator, and also that b) in stories, a character can commit uncomfortable and horrifying acts and still have nuance and depth as a character.

which brings me to point 2): that the solution to offensive stereotypes is not to insist that no one of x demographic can ever do y thing; it's to provide more characters of x demographic, so that the onus of representing an entire group isn't just on one character. tana being an indigenous hawaiian woman who grooms a white boy wouldn't be nearly so offensive if there were other significant indigenous hawaiian women in the narrative, not doing any of that. if hillary got more of a role, for example, or if (and hear me out, because this is my magnum opus of niche-ass superboy 1994 opinions:) silver sword got brought on as a mentor figure to kon and also was a trans woman. frankly, the handling of silver sword's story was egregious and if anything deserves a good, less racist rewrite, imo, it's his whole arc. kon getting an indigenous mentor to actually teach him about hawaii and the issues with colonialism and tourism and their impact on everything could've been really good actually, and silver sword would've been perfect if they didn't write him off like that. ... or, should i say, write her off like that?

listen i just think silver sword could've been an awesome native hawaiian transfem professor and a recurring part of the kon squad in hawaii. do you see the vision

[kerryweaverlesbian]

When Eileen or whoever Sam's blurry wife is in a throw away line in a fic is pregnant to show that Sam's happy and doing good it kinda revolts me not gonna lie. We're really putting 2.5 kids on whatever woman shaped object is in Sam's love life? And on Sam for that matter? Who, by the end of the show, expressed zero interest in having a little baby and said he felt fulfilled by hunting, despite its downsides.

One of the reasons Sam and Eileen work well together is that they're both hunters and feel able to lean on each other in that regard, and yet pregnancy or motherhood is often the only thing we hear about Eileen in these cases. She's made into an incubator. Is the only vision of happiness she's allowed becoming Mary from the first minute of the Pilot?

[robynostornwyn]

Wol'shtola Week - Day 2: Fell First / Fell Harder

Robyn loves easily, but that doesn't mean it is any less deep or meaningful. She may have only been with the Scions for a little while, but already she loves each and every one of them in their own ways. How could she not after all they have been through together?

But even she was surprised at the pang in her chest as she watched Y'shtola that evening.

Y'shtola was lost in her studies, working through some theory or another that she seemed close to cracking. Pacing back and forth, juggling multiple tomes and scribbling notes on the edge of Tataru's desk - it was all just so endearing.

Oh. I love her.

Such a simple thought, and yet it would end up changing everything.

~

Y'shtola had surprised her with a kiss a few weeks earlier - all relief and adrenaline after her close victory over Leviathan. Finding herself in Y'shtola's bed later that night was less of a surprise. Robyn was hardly a stranger to the occasional tryst, and she certainly had to admit an interest in the beautiful scholar.

And really, who could blame her? Y'shtola is exceptionally smart and exceptionally beautiful. Her passion to understand the mysteries of the world is only seconded by how much she cares about the world she is helping to save. And all the small kindnesses she has shown to Robyn has made her feel far more welcome with the scions than any large gesture.

Ok, so maybe it was more than a single night. But it was never supposed to be anything more than letting off some steam and having a little fun. It certainly wasn't supposed to become something more.

It's fine, Robyn would just deal with it. No need to make things awkward with something like feelings.

~

Moenbryda's death hit them all hard. Honestly, they had gotten cocky - after so many impossible victories it was easy to start feeling at least a little invincible. But in an instant, that perception was shattered.

When Y'shtola came to her, Robyn thought it would be for comfort. She was not expecting her to put an end to whatever it was that they were doing. It made sense - their lives were too dangerous, anything between them would be a liability and was bound for heartbreak. Better to stop now before any feelings were involved and things were still simple. Robyn would agree and do whatever Y'shtola wanted, her own heart be damned.

So Robyn threw herself into her work. There was so much that needed to be done, and if she spent as much time away from Mor Dhona as possible, well no one was the wiser.

~

Of course Y'shtola was right. Robyn sat upon the battlements of Camp Dragonhead, tears streaming down her face and clutching a mug of hot cocoa like a lifeline. How could everything go so badly? How did she so utterly fail to protect any of them? What was she supposed to do now?

Nothing but questions and the sound of a crumbling tunnel ringing in her ears.

~

They found her. Plucked her from the lifestream - not unchanged, but still her. A sorely needed balm for Robyn's heart, and a bolster for her resolve.

Hope. Hope for a path forward, hope to find the others, hope to have her friend - her friend and nothing more - by her side again. And whatever Y'shtola needed she would provide. An anchoring touch, eyes in the dark, a shoulder in a moment of weakness. Anything to stay by her side.

~

Robyn is leaving her. Y'shtola is hurt and Rhalgr's Reach is burning and Robyn is leaving to go to the other side of the world to face a foe she has already lost to. Might lose everything to. Never has she been so unsure of her next steps, never has her actions been at such odds with her heart.

She asks Tataru to pen a letter for her apologizing to Y'shtola for failing her in every way. For not being fast enough to protect her, for being too weak to defeat the man who hurt her, and for leaving instead of making sure she would be alright. For not being there when she woke.

The letter she receives in reply does little to assuage her guilt, but it does fill her with such relief knowing Y'shtola is awake and on the mend.

~

Dear Y'shtola, Nothing fills me with as much relief as hearing of your recovery. I feel like after all of this is over, I should personally thank those who have watched over and cared for you all this time. And as much as I am sure you are ready to get back into the action, I hope you heed their advice and let your body heal. I faced Zenos again. I faced him and I lost to him again, and again he just walked away. He is toying with me and I don't understand his game. I am worried about what will happen when he gets bored of it. Surprisingly though, the Domans have faith. There is a new hope rising in the people, and so we are bound for the Azem Steppe to find their lord to lead a new revolution. It is easy to get swept up in the excitement, but I fear it is still a hard road ahead of us. All I can hope for is that whatever trials we face, that they will help make me strong enough to actually make a difference the next time. But, in the event that it isn't enough, I have a confession to make, before it is too late. Though I know this goes against your wishes and may cause more pain than its worth, I feel I must take this opportunity regardless. I love you. I have been in love with you for years. And I think you deserve to know - not because I expect any sort of response - but because there is something important in knowing that you have been loved, that you are capable of being loved. And you are. You are the most incredible person I have ever met, and I have been so privileged to know you, to walk by your side, and to marvel in your beauty, your intelligence and your heart. And despite all the fear and pain that has come from almost losing you time and time again, I don't regret it in the slightest. Not for a moment. The joy of loving you far outweighs any negatives. Please know I am perfectly content in how things are now, and we never need to mention it again. I hope you forgive me this momentary selfishness. I pray you continue to mend and that you will be back on your feet soon. The Alliance and the Scions will continue to have need of your wisdom, and I know Lyse is eager to hear of your recovery as well. I have no doubt you will rise to the occasion to face whatever may lie ahead. With all my heart, Robyn

Y'shtola sat on the bed in her small infirmary room clutching Robyn's letter. She didn't know if she wanted to cry, leap for joy, or run to catch the next ship bound for the Far East, but the tightness in her chest kept her in place.

Was she surprised? Terrified? Relieved?

Memories flashed in her mind's eye - The smile on Robyn's face after she kissed her. The way Robyn held her in the utter darkness after she lost her sight. The small touches as Robyn subtly guides her through crowded streets. How Robyn always seems to seek her out first when the scions are together. Even Mhitra and Matoya have both commented on Robyn's attentiveness - she really should have realized earlier.

Perhaps a part of her had. She certainly was aware of her own affection. But Robyn's heart is the most precious of treasures, and the last thing she ever wanted was to be the source of it breaking. To think that she has already caused her such pain in the attempt to save her from it.

Besides, personal feelings were not the only things at stake here. They both had important work to attend to - Robyn often carried the hope and future of Eorzea on her shoulders, and Y'shtola's work could change their entire understanding of the world as they know it. If it came to it, she knew she would do what was needed over what her heart may desire. Could Robyn forgive her for such a choice? Could she forgive herself?

Lost in the maelstrom of her emotions, Y'shtola jumped when a hand touched her shoulder.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

It was the chirurgeon in charge of her care. A kind woman who was surprisingly talented with both the chirugeon's art and healing magics. Krile's ministrations may have saved her life that day, but it was this woman's work that allowed her body to actually heal. Perhaps...perhaps with all her experience she may have an answer to all these burning questions.

"Can I ask your opinion on something?"

"Of course."

"In your line of work, I imagine death is a constant. You have probably seen what grief and loss does to people more than most. Do you think it's worth it? Loving someone when you know it will end in tragedy? That you will only end up hurting them?"

"You certainly know how to jump into a conversation."

"Apologies, I..."

"No, no it's fine. Being in one of our beds often brings out people's introspection."

She sat down on the edge of the bed, taking a moment to gather her thoughts.

"You are right, no matter how hard I try, death is an ever present companion. People regret a lot of things at the end - things left undone or unsaid, anger or yelling, leaving or fighting. But never love. Love is what helps them to hold on, to find peace or meaning in the lives they have lived.

And for the ones left behind? Well, I lost my love just over a year ago. She was a patient before she was more, and I knew from the beginning I wasn't going to be able to save her. As you said, I knew it would end in tragedy, and still I chose to love her. It gave me the strength to keep searching for ways to give her what life I could, and I still use the knowledge I gained to help others with similar conditions. Even now knowing the pain of her loss, the grief of it all, I would do it all again given the chance.

Love is a motivator - it pushes us to be better versions of ourselves, makes our lives more meaningful, and connects us to others in surprising ways. It may not solve all our problems or protect us from the hurt, but it is never a waste.

So to answer your question: yes, I do think it is worth it."

~

My Dearest Robyn, I won't keep up any pretense that I have anything to say that is half as important as this: I love you too, Robyn Ostornwyn. I think I have for far longer than I would admit, even to myself. I have been afraid - afraid of causing you pain, afraid of being forced to compromise, afraid of admitting a weakness. But life is too uncertain to hide behind fear, and we are people of action. I love you. I long for the warmth of your presence, the softness of your touch, and the comfort of your arms. I miss listening to your stories and the sound of your laughter, and I certainly miss the taste of your cooking. All the ways you have been showing your love to me all this time, that I have felt and cherished, even if I was too blind to see it. So go, do what needs to be done. Defeat the imperials, free Doma, and triumph over Zenos. Achieve the impossible, as you are wont to do, and come back to me. Yours, Shtola

[antigonesghosts]

What I loved about Cinderella's Castle is it is so entirely about Ella. We know starkid can handle a show with tons and tons of characters but I found it quite refreshing for it to be so wholly her story? I think it was a lovely choice for this show and man Bryce did such a perfect job of it, she is truly such a star

[dewwshi]

i read homeland and this is mostly the impression i got

[lunarharp]

love's shadow will surround - 6k T orufrey fic about a witch and a silverleaf

He's left the lights of his small house on, his tiny atelier, waiting - he likes to see the glint of it on the leaves, his light reach the tree here. Give him what he can. It's always a comfort.

But when his physical senses are dulled, it brings it all back like fog, the flashes of memory. Of that day, all of them around the twisted body. He cups a few straggling branches, letting the hurt filter through him, almost as if keen to. They called him the Witch of Light in those days, eulogise his work still - but that was his masterpiece.

[starryeyeddreamer21]

Hazbin Hotel Incorrect Quotes

Lucifer: *walks into the room covered in lipstick marks* Hey... why is everyone looking at me like that?

Vaggie: Um, Sir, you've got a little something... everywhere

Charlie: Mom WHY

Lilith: *puzzled* It wasn't me

Angel: Than who-

Alastor: *walks in with smudged lipstick* What's going on in here?

[sneaky-eel]

I was thinking of Desmond's mother again and how my version is no nonsense and awkward with affection. But now I can only think that if Desmond had lived, she would do, not quite a complete 180, but try a lot more while still being horribly awkward.

She full on goes Altair scholar mode and gets, like, 30 books for new parents and studies them all in one night. Maybe one or two pet owner ones cause she is desperate damn it. She wants so badly to try and make up for his childhood. Which is really great and all, but now she is trying to apply them to her 25-year-old son.

Desmond comes down for food and finds his dinner there, already cut up, which cool he hasn't mastered the art of cutting food with only one hand yet, so that definitely makes things easier. Then she starts watching him like a hawk (or eagle, hehe), making sure he eats enough and sleeps enough.

Hell, maybe for the first few nights, she waits for Desmond to fall asleep and camps herself in a chair by his door, sleeping there to act as his silent guard.

She asks Bill about the pros and cons of putting a baby monitor in Desmond's room, and Bill just gives her a tired look and is like, "Please don't."

One of the books talked about the importance of giving attention and affirmation to your child, so she will comment on his skills, but occasionally randomly be like, "Good job, son. You... got very tall? Handsome? Combatant?" (She is trying, Desmond. Leave her alone.)

Kids (and pets) need regular exercise, right? Well, Desmond, get ready to be woken up at 4 in the morning by your mother at the foot of your bed, asking if you would like to go on a run with her.

She puts Desmond's first proper mission report on the fridge cause that's a thing she knows parents do when they are proud of their kid.

She starts giving him small things when he does something good. Candy, desserts, maybe a new hoodie. It escalates to her one day being like, "Should I get him a puppy, or a cat? Some kind of service animal perhaps."

And God forbid someone wants to meet with her son. Bill had told the whole Brotherhood what Desmond had done, and when the news finally gets out that he is alive, many want to see/meet him, but they have to go through Mama Miles first. She does background checks on their background checks, looks over all their previous missions and success rate, and makes them file a god damn intentions form. If they pass all that, then they have to get through several hours of interrogation by her personally. It's only then she will ask Desmond "Hey do you want to meet these people?" and if he says no, she throws them out without a second thought.

At first, it all makes Desmond very confused. He thinks it's maybe out of pity, but eventually, he realizes this is just her trying to make up for never being physically there. It leaves him smiling and shaking his head because even his infallible (in his eyes) mother can be such a...a dork. He ends up extending his own olive branch by asking her to help him train so he can get use to the whole one arm thing.

[many-gay-magpies]

random urge to write charles bisexually bonding with an old lady client