#gut punch of catastrophe

[rearranging-deck-chairs]

"je suis l'élue"

[puppetwoman17]

Okay, so there’s this Billy Batson post-Injustice fic called A Reason to Fight on AO3, and it’s got me wanting more fics like that.

I mean, there’s so many different ways it could go.

One fic could be where he did die, and we can’t bring him back. The JL are brought back together to take on an otherworldly evil(surprise surprise) and they need the help of the gods to do it. With both conventional and unconventional means, they’re able to be granted passage to Olympus for this one catastrophic emergency(begrudgingly, because the gods sorta hate their guts).

Then they see this one glowing building, separated from the rest. It’s got a lightning bolt on it. Sparks flying around it. Gives off a less imposing vibe. There’s suspicions about what it’s for, but no one feels compelled to ask. Until a leaguer(doesn’t have to be specific, maybe Guy Gardener or Flash or whatevs) gains enough courage to ask what that place is.

The god leading them to Zeus stops dead in their tracks. They don’t speak yet. They turn and look at the leaguer who was dumb enough to ask a grieving god a question like that.

And the god replies: “The Hall of Champions is where every champion goes when they die. They are allowed to spend their afterlife in complete relaxation as the fruits of their labor. They meet others like them and forgo the troubles of their mortal lives.”

The god says that last part bitterly.

The JL immediately knows who’s inside. The building just speaks Marvel. That same stupid league member asks if they can go inside. If they can speak to one of them, no one in particular(everyone knows they’re lying, but the guilt is just too much).

The god laughs. Actually just laughs right there, in front of a bunch of mortals and super powered people who dare to think they can come anywhere near the former Champion of Magic.

The god tells them: “We granted him his wish of being part of a team because we thought it would help him through such trying times. We thought he finally had others who would look after him, something we may not always be able to do. We thought he would finally, after all these years, have something akin to family.

“And just like that, those hopes and dreams were taken away, all because our champion finally saw the light again. If you go so much as a foot closer to him, the gods of Olympus will show you the same mercy you showed your so-called teammate.”

Lol, that’s as far as I’ve gotten.

Another fic could be where he actually didn’t die, like in A Reason to Fight. He comes back to life after recharging just like in A Reason to Fight. But this time, there’s a change.

He doesn’t make himself known. He changes his identity and stays under the league radar. He doesn’t transform into Cap, but he secretly helps the people of Fawcett with his powers because BILLY was chosen, not the avatar itself.

Dunno how to go about the next part. That all depends on the plot, what characters are still alive and still dead. The timeline of when exactly he comes back and how long he stays incognito.

But somehow, someway, the League becomes aware that Marvel, that Billy, is alive. They rush to see him after (however) long. They see him alive and well…

And he’s just disgusted. Heartbroken. Scared. Angry. Tells them to f*ck off and find some other kid’s dreams to destroy. Tells them to never contact him unless it’s for business that requires the Champion’s reputation. Because despite everything, he still takes his job as Champion very seriously. Because he thought he could finally trust these adults, and they turned their backs on him.

He especially hates Superman for the looks of guilt he gives him. Just wants to punch him in the face. Same with Diana. Same with Lantern. Same with Flash and Cy. Maybe not Batman, but even association can hurt.

Again, idk where this one might go, or how the plot is or whatever, but I need more post-Injustice fics on Billy Batson damnit!

[larkspyrr]

chapter v — would i run off the world someday? (wc. 4.6k)

prev — masterlist / ao3 — next

reblogs are appreciated!

Wriothesley ducked, narrowly missing your glove as it brushed across the peak of his shoulder. You withdrew, making a tiny, frustrated noise and narrowing your eyes. You shook out your fist before returning to the stance he’d taught you, poised to strike again, a viper with its fangs bared and glinting.

"Good," Wriothesley barked, flashing you a breathless smile during the momentary lull between swings. "Keep it up!"

A wild grin lit your face, your eyes catching an arc of golden light. You lunged again and Wriothesley sidestepped it with ease, weaving in the opposite direction of the coming impact. "I intend to."

"Get one more good hit on me and we'll call it a day."

You stopped abruptly, arms sagging to your sides. Your face fell, the very picture of disappointment. "Already?"

Wriothesley tilted his head, letting his arms relax a bit, fists lowering from his face. He spared a glance at the massive bronze clock ticking away overhead. "We've been here for over —"

He had barely enough time to register your sorrow morph into savage delight before you struck, gloved fist landing squarely in his gut. He recoiled with an oof.

You straightened up, stretching your arms and neck with a grin. Your training shirt lifted slightly more than was strictly proper with the motion but he was almost too busy trying to process that he'd been duped to enjoy it. Almost. "Never let your guard down, Wrio," you said coyly. You stretched your arms out in a wide arc on either side of your body, bring them — and your shirt — back down where they belong. "My teacher tells me that all the time."

Wriothesley laughed despite his sudden air deficiency, a surprised hand still pressed against the point of impact on his stomach. "I suppose he does, doesn't he? Wise and handsome,” he said, lifting a brow. “But that was a cheap shot."

"Nothing about me is cheap," you shot back with a wicked grin and a wink, knocking the breath out of his lungs once again, more effectively than any punch ever had. You looked at him as you descended the stairs, grabbing a towel off the side of the ring and throwing it over your shoulder. "Tea?"

“Of course."

He forced himself not to watch your departure too closely — he was a gentleman, after all, no matter what the sight of you in your training clothes did to him. He'd thought, that first day when you emerged from the locker room in black trousers and a loose-fitting shirt that covered your skin all the way down to your wrists, that you looked more beautiful than you had dripping gemstones and lace — that you looked radiant, powerful, in your element. That maybe this ruse had been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad idea. That you’d be the death of him.

He still thought all of those things, from time to time. He was a perfect gentleman, of course. But no one could fault a man for admiring art. So long as he didn't participate in any heists down the line.

Or attempt to, anyway. Some art seemed quite resistant to being stolen, reinforced glass and thick screws in iron walls and armed gardes and he was absolutely fine with that because Wriothesley was a duke and would never disrespect art's wishes, especially when art had no intentions of ever marrying.

He felt perhaps the metaphor had gotten away from him a little.

In the weeks since you'd come to your arrangement, he had learned quite a bit, about not only the aristocracy and etiquette, but about you as well. Your relationship was unconventional, that much was certain, but nothing about Wriothesley's life could ever be called conventional, so he elected to roll with the punches, and Archons — you certainly kept the punches coming.

You stopped to pick up your dress from the basket near the locker room door, waving your hand at him as you slipped through and out of sight. Wriothesley released a catastrophic exhale as the door swung shut behind you and he was left, mercifully, alone.

He had expected a thousand different things from your attachment — not many of which falling under the umbrella of 'good' or 'easy'. He historically had a penchant for keeping people at arm’s length, not only for their own protection — but his as well. From the time he entered the Fortress for the very first time, young and shivering and wisp-thin, bloodstained and naive, traumatized and defensive, he'd had a knack for attracting trouble, from every corner of every nook, of every name and variety. It found its way to him like sharks to an open wound and all he could do to stop it was try not to flail and make it worse and hope that the shiver would pass him by.

As much as Wriothesley enjoyed companionship, he had to face the reality that he had to be particular with those he allowed into his inner circle.

He would never admit it out loud, but it was terribly lonely.

People relied on him. No one ever asked him to take the role after the previous administrator fled—he chose to fill it, opening the doors to the office and taking up the mantle while he still wore his production overalls. He took it, so it was his duty to take every responsibility that came along with it seriously. He knew that it would mean sacrifices; that it meant never truly belonging to the overworld again. But when he thought about it, had he ever belonged there anyway? Not even since he was first sentenced, but before? Perhaps even from the day he came to be, had he ever truly belonged?

Determination, cowardice, obligation, fury. Righteousness. Loneliness. The cocktail that made Wriothesley who he was and guided his every move left little room for anything else, his own desires be damned. And when his home and his people were threatened, he knew he’d find a way to overcome, as ‘overcome’ was what he had always done, through hell or high water or whatever primordial miasma or sunken cities existed in between.

He'd hoped you would be the key. He'd expected you to be a pawn; a convenience. Perhaps another obligation, another surefire trouble hounding him, hot on his heels. He'd expected you to maybe renege on your word; to call off the ruse or fail to rise to the occasion. He'd expected you to end up being just as cold, critical, and capricious as the rest of the court had led him to expect from one of their own. He'd expected you to confine him to a singular, stifling box lined with the barbed wire of perception, to treat him like dirt — or worse, to treat him like a duke.

He hadn't expected to find a friend. But friendship was easy with you, as everything was. Easy to bare a tiny shard of his soul, easy to laugh, easy to walk by your side and feel like maybe he belonged — somewhere.

Easy to want.

And if he had to remind himself from time to time that you were off-limits — for his sake as well as your own — well, that was no one's business but Wriothesley's.

"Not gonna change?"

He snapped to attention at your voice, seeing you'd returned, as lovely and perfect and put-together as though you'd never been in the ring at all, never left bruises in the shape of your fingers on Wriothesley’s skin. Your hair once again fixed back away from your face, all the little flyaways that made his pulse jump tucked back away where they had originally been. Jewels dangled in front of your exposed collarbone, still flushed from your shower. Your head, tilted in confusion as you looked at him still standing on the platform, covered in sweat, undignified and slack-jawed.

"Ah, sorry, I was, uh. Wrapping up," he said haltingly. "I'll only be a minute."

You smiled at him, unsure but trusting, and nodded, looking for all the world out of place against the backdrop of splintered wood and battered dummies and limescale.

Wriothesley pushed down his want to a place where it couldn’t reach him, and turned away.

"This is unexpected," Wriothesley said, still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes from behind his desk. He hadn’t even gotten to his morning tea yet; you’d entered his office unannounced about as soon as he’d dropped into his chair.

You folded your arms in front of your dress — which, today, was an enchanting sea green with mesmerizing eddies of opalescent pearl. He stared at them blankly, tired eyes following their swirling path as he searched his brain for answers that continued to elude him.

"You were aware there was a ball today, were you not?"

He frowned in sleepy concentration. "I was,” he said slowly, recalling your words the last time you’d been by, a few days previously. You’d mentioned it in passing over tea, while explaining to him the differences between various silverware and what they were used for in polite society. He was pretty sure he knew the differences on a fundamental level, though the reasoning behind so much specificity still evaded him, as much about ‘polite society’ eternally did. “But —"

"There are still be a number of balls we must attend together,” you interrupted. You tapped a heeled foot against the bronze floor of his office.  “To keep up appearances, as you well know."

He sighed. "And I take it one such ball is happening today?"

"Indeed it is." You tugged at the sleeve of your dress absently, angling a slow smile his way.

He rubbed a hand over his face before eyeing you warily. “And what is the occasion this time?”

“It’s a two-parter," you said cheerily, beatifically, an expression which immediately filled him with a sense of dread. You daintily sat on the edge of his desk. He sent up a quick prayer to whatever Archon might be listening to give him strength. You crossed one leg over the other, the action causing the fabric at your thighs to bunch slightly. Wriothesley's fingers twitched. "The ball itself follows a performance happening today at the Opera Epiclese. Some tragedy or other. It would be wonderful if you could accompany me, which —"

"Which is why you are here to bother me at the crack of dawn," he finished.

"Precisely," you confirmed, expression light and impish. "I wanted to make sure you didn't have other plans. Plus, I knew you'd have a harder time turning me down after I made the journey all the way down here."

Wriothesley sighed again. Defeated. You were right.

He’d spent the night dealing with a possible issue among the inmates — some scheme or other George had brought to his attention before it could come to pass, a warning passed along the other day in a surreptitious walk-by, the skittish boy disappearing back into the crowd before Wriothesley had even noticed the letter stuffed into his palm — but after a night of searching alongside a few other trusted staff members, had been unable to find anything amiss anywhere within the facility.

He’d suspected it would be the culmination after months of mutterings about something nefarious at play, rumors and tips promising enough that the absolute radio silence the night before had only increased Wriothesley's worry of what such a conflict would entail. Not to mention who and how many could possibly be involved. The challenge in learning more about such details did not bode well for their origins. Rumors spread like wildfire within a prison — unless there was someone you didn’t want to know you’d been talking.

Wriothesley was, as a result, nowhere near being in a physical or mental state to deal with the aristocracy’s games on that particular day. Frustrated and exhausted, he was fairly sure it had been a miracle of human will that he managed to drag himself to his office at all.

But it had been a while since he’d been inside the Opera Epiclese, and he supposed fewer curious eyes would be on him in the darkness of the audience chamber.

Plus, you would be there.

“Fine,” he grumbled, reluctantly getting back to his feet. He dropped his pen back to the desk where it clattered, a mascot for his own inner turmoil. “Just give me a bit of time to get ready and we can depart.”

You shot off his desk excitedly. "Oh, we have time! It isn't until this evening," you said. Your eyes were eager; an expression he was getting too know a little too well. He already knew the next words that would come out of your mouth. "I figured we could squeeze in a training session beforehand."

He laughed quietly, the sound quickly transforming into a yawn. "Of course you did."

“Also,” you said, holding up a silk-clad hand with an apologetic smile. “Today, I will help you select your attire.”

Wriothesley bristled. “What was wrong with my attire last time?”

“Oh, it was perfectly fine, if you were attending as a prison warden," you said carefully, one eyebrow delicately arched. "This is an opera, Wriothesley, and we are going to be attending arm-in-arm. I need to make sure you look the part.”

Wriothesley’s face fell. He was almost too tired to ask... but he had to know. “Is looking the part going to be uncomfortable?”

Your smile was wide and innocent. He didn’t believe it for a second. “Oh, absolutely. That’s a vital part of the experience.”

Arriving in the overworld never got any less disorienting, no matter how many times Wriothesley ascended from the depths to the Opera Epiclese, passing by centuries of despair and decay and brine. But finally, at last, the sun made its appearance high overhead, unimpeded by the sea, and he was above ground once more.

He fidgeted, adjusting his sleeve. You were right. The suit you had picked for him was uncomfortable.

He looked good, though.

And when you scanned him head to toe with an appraising eye before declaring he looked ‘very handsome’, well, he decided then and there that maybe he’d have worn anything if it made you think that. He was a simple man.

Wriothesley spared one more longing glance at the entrance to the Fortress before he descended the steps into the Fountain of Lucine courtyard, into an ocean whose waters he still didn’t understand, vibrant bursts of color, diamonds and champagne and violins and titles. You, on his arm, looking as though you had not a worry in the world. He was feeling strangely reminiscent of the night of your meeting. Proud to be the one you chose to stand beside.

It didn’t make the experience any less dizzying, of course. He marveled once more at the sheer force of the glittering, suffocating display and the legions of people who looked so at home in the midst of it, so in contrast to how Wriothesley felt with his stomach on the floor. He felt the same as he had as a boy, when he looked out of the viewing windows at the end of the ferry and into the vast Fontemer, living and breathing just ahead — close enough to touch, but separated by an impenetrable wall, forever separate from the shimmering iridescent fish who swam by with no regard for Wriothesley at all, wide-eyed and so, so young.

He realized too late that he had begun to hold your hold arm a little more tightly to his side. If you had noticed his moment of weakness, you didn’t say a word, smiling and offering a polite greeting to an acquaintance as you passed by.

He hadn’t even noticed he was being guided until you came to a stop by a flowerbed, identical to the one he had first approached you at, weeks ago. This time, the look on your face was kind, understanding, lacking any of the boredom and resentment of that first evening. Looking at him, as opposed to staunchly away.

His heart pounded.

"Wrio," you said, your mouth curving into a gentle smile. You paused, a bare breath of a moment, and then reached out to adjust his tie for him, your knuckles brushing gently against his throat as you fussed over it. He swallowed, wanting yet unable to look away from you, close enough for him to kiss, if he wanted to.

He definitely didn’t.

Archons, was he fucked.

You finished adjusting his tie before patting it down, straightening out his coat, fingers curled around each lapel. You let your hands rest on either side of his chest, apparently content not to move them just yet. He hoped desperately that you couldn’t feel his pulse thundering beneath your palms.

"Ready for the show?" you asked, eyes bright and playful.

A question which Wriothesley knew had two meanings. A question to ground him. He exhaled, willing a wave of tension to drain out of his shoulders. He lifted his free hand to give yours a squeeze, just above his heart. A small number of neighboring attendees watched the gesture raptly, gossiping mouths hidden away behind their hands.

"With you by my side," he said with a lopsided smile, "I'm ready for anything."

Wriothesley had always liked the opera. He had even when he bore a different name.

As a boy, when he would hang out around the Fountain of Lucine to pluck out stray mora that the other children hadn’t gotten to yet, he would cling onto the soft, warbling notes that radiated from the opera house’s shuttered doors. The boy would relish the sounds of the plays — tragedies, comedies, romances. He’d savor the voices clear as a Fontainian spring. He’d delight in the orchestras, telling a story together in perfect harmony, painting a landscape upon the blank canvas of his adolescent imagination.

He would find a quiet corner behind some flowering bushes to sit and close his eyes and dream. Sometimes, the boy would just appreciate the gift he didn’t have any mora to buy or any right to steal. Sometimes, if he was feeling brave, the boy would let himself imagine the voice of a mother he’d never known, singing to him from somewhere forever out of his reach.

After a while, whenever he went to the Opera Epiclese, the boy would forget to check the fountain at all.

After the boy who went by a different name was taken in by a host family, the faceless voice in his mind was replaced by the voice of a woman who smiled warmly at him and drew smiles in mustard on his sandwiches and gave him friends — brothers and sisters, bright, beautiful spirits — and he didn’t have to imagine anything at all. She and a man, a mother and a father, a bewitching duet, cradling his lonely soul and giving him a song of his own to fill the empty spaces in his heart. And for a while, the boy felt like maybe he wouldn’t have to close his eyes in a dark corner to dream anymore.

Until the man and the woman betrayed the boy and the song in his mind went silent, ceasing beneath the violent whip of a conductor’s cruel hand. The boy hadn’t gone to the Opera Epiclese to hear the singing since. In fact, the first and only time he had been at all was to stand trial for their murder.

He'd barely had any interest in music after that at all; until one day when he had marched into an administrative office to find a rusty old gramophone sitting on the desk, dusty and silent and dead.

He’d pulled out a record he found in a nearby drawer and fiddled with the device until it played an unfamiliar piano tune; crackling in protest but alive. He almost always let it play now while he worked. A new song for a new name.

You shifted at his right side, your arm pressing against his own, and the boy was brought back to the present, sitting in a high-backed, elegant seat in a darkened opera house he hadn’t been back inside since he was convicted, a lifetime and an identity ago.

A young woman stood center stage, head to toe in shimmering sapphire, illuminated from above by a singular spotlight shining unforgivingly at her from somewhere in the dark catwalk. She sang of the Oceanids, a haunting, reverberating melody which ushered the audience through her sorrow and loss, her dark eyes glittering with theatrical tears.

She brought her lament to its conclusion, eyes shut, manufactured tears sliding delicately down her cheeks at last, a finely manicured hand pressed demurely to the swell of her chest. Her voice echoed and waned before coming to its inevitable conclusion; the chamber’s silence reigning supreme for only a moment before an applause far too polite to have properly encompassed the appreciation for the performance spread amongst the audience. The singer curtsied low, the curtain falling and obscuring her from view before she rose once more.

Wriothesley clapped politely alongside them until the throng began to rise and make its way back out of the venue in orderly rows, like hundreds of affluent ants.

“I didn’t realize you were such a fan of the opera, Wriothesley,” you were saying from his side. You hummed thoughtfully. Eyes on him, even in the dark, even as the lights slowly returned to the opera house. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so attentive.”

“I’m a very worldly man,” Wriothesley said smoothly. “But I’m afraid you must have not noticed yet, my lady. I am far more attentive when it comes to you.”

You snorted, a quiet sound—one of his favorites—meant only for Wriothesley’s ears, and he smiled, suddenly feeling rather warm. You tapped your finger on the back of his wrist as you stood. “My father is just ahead. We should stop and say hello.”

Wriothesley nodded in agreement, allowing you to tug him in the direction you had indicated. His eyes finally found your father in the crowd, talking to a squat, older man he didn’t recognize.

“Hello, darling. And hello, Your Grace,” greeted your father as you and Wriothesley approached. The Viscount turned, a flute of champagne in his left hand, half-drained and sloshing with the rotation. His cheeks were pleasantly flushed, his smile friendly and open. He was steadier on his feet here than he had been at the previous ball. He was dressed impeccably. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“The pleasure is mine, my lord,” said Wriothesley earnestly, dipping his head. He nodded as well to the other man, who returned the gesture in kind.

The Viscount grinned toothily. “I do hope my daughter isn’t giving you too hard a time.”

Wriothesley chuckled, looking at you as you gave your father an unimpressed glare, arm still tucked in the crook of Wriothesley’s elbow. He didn’t have to work too hard to appear fond for the benefit of watching eyes. “Of course not, sir,” he said at last, tearing his eyes away from you to return his gaze to your father. “In fact, your daughter’s company has been the highlight of these past few weeks.”

You made a startled noise. “Oh, stop it,” you said hurriedly, cheeks coloring ever-so-slightly. “You’ll make a lady blush.”

Wriothesley smiled, hopelessly endeared. “It seems I already have.”

“Hush, you.”

Your father beamed, eyes darting between your pout and Wriothesley’s smile, wrinkling even further at the corners. “Nonetheless, you have my gratitude for looking after her,” he said, and gestured to the man still watching patiently at his side. “Your Grace, this is Lord Paquette. He’s an old friend of mine. Paquette, this is Wriothesley, the Duke of Meropide.”

The other man bowed shallowly, form perfect, nearly mechanical in its precision despite his apparent age. “It’s an honor to meet you at last, Your Grace.”

Wriothesley smiled tightly, swallowing down the usual nerves that gripped him when meeting a new person who almost certainly knew his past — and held his precariously positioned future in their hands (and in their vote). “The honor is all mine, Lord Paquette."

The man smiled and turned his attention to you, still watching the exchange with a careful expression. “It’s nice to see you as well.”

Wriothesley could feel you relax a little as you smiled at the older man. “And you as well, my lord. How is Gerard? Still in Sumeru?"

"He's well, thank you," he responded absently. He turned his attention back to Wriothesley. “How did you find the performance, Your Grace? Have you seen Mademoiselle Genevieve perform before?”

Wriothesley felt a twinge of irritation at his dismissal of you; could have sworn he felt you stiffen at his side. He tried to ignore it for now. “This was the first I've heard of her," Wriothesley answered honestly, managing a polite enough expression. "Her performance was very moving. It's been… quite a while since I’ve been to the opera.”

Your father smiled sympathetically. Lord Paquette looked very much the same as he had before.

Wriothesley didn't think he was a fan.

“Say. We’d love to have you join us on our next ride, Your Grace,” said the Viscount.

"Oh, yes." Lord Paquette offered Wriothesley a conspiratorial grin. “It's a nice afternoon for some of us gentlemen to get away from the missus for a bit. You'll understand one day, I'm sure."

The Viscount snorted indignantly, and suddenly Wriothesley knew exactly where you got it from.

"Oh, I very much doubt that. There are scant few places I'd rather be than by her side," Wriothesley said easily, turning his best devoted smile on you. Your returning smile was dry and humorless, a tiny private eye roll just for Wriothesley's benefit. Wriothesley looked at Paquette, then your father. "But I'd be honored to join you all for an afternoon."

"Oh, how wonderful," said the Viscount, clapping Wriothesley on the shoulder. "I will send word once we have a date set.”

“Thank you, sir. I will be looking forward to it.”

"Take care, Your Grace," the Viscount called as he departed, amicably greeting no fewer than three separate people before he was even out of earshot.

Lord Paquette watched him go, turning back to face the two of you once more. He smiled at Wriothesley and then at you, nodding his head. “And I actually would like to speak with you as well at some point in the near future. I have some business I think you’ll be interested in.”

Wriothesley watched you hesitate, glancing at your father’s retreating back before returning to Lord Paquette, who waited patiently for your response. “Me?” you asked incredulously, head cocked. “Not my father?”

“Precisely,” he said ambiguously, already looking detached from the conversation, eyes wandering over the rest of the crowd. “We will speak then, my lady. Enjoy your evening.”

“And you, Lord Paquette,” you said slowly, an uncertain tint to your voice.

With that, Paquette left, disappearing into the crowd. He had left his own champagne flute behind, standing empty and neglected on the stone ledge ringing the courtyard. Wriothesley found that he could breathe a bit easier without the added scrutiny of the older gentleman, exhaling slowly.

“That was odd,” you said, pulling your arm from his and leaning against the ledge. Your eyes were narrowed analytically as you scanned the rest of the attendees. The ball was getting going in earnest, violins making their reappearance, servers darting around with startling agility amidst the crowd, balancing mountains of champagne and hors d'oeuvres on the trays held precariously aloft in their hands.

Wriothesley hummed in agreement, moving to lean against the ledge at your side. “That sort of thing not happen often?”

"Someone having business with me, of all people?" you said dubiously. "No, I can’t say it does. Should be interesting, at least. But he probably just intends to ask me to marry his son, having not even consulted him about it, if I had to wager a guess."

Wriothesley was quiet for a beat, lost in thought.

“So,” he drawled finally, the vowel long and drawn out. You quirked an eyebrow at him curiously. “Riding?” he prompted.

You laughed lightly, shaking your head. “My father would just like for you to come riding with him. You should be honored. It means he likes you," you explained. “It’s something they do often in the warmer months. An age-old tradition for the men of the court to go frolic in the fields for a few hours and talk about fishing or gambling or whatever it is they talk about out there.”

Wriothesley blanched as realization finally dawned on him. “Like on a horse?”

You look at him deliberately, lips curved with amusement. “Yes, Wriothesley. Like on a horse.”

“And you can’t come?”

“Traditionally speaking, no, I can’t come.”

He swallowed thickly, a sharp pang of trepidation seizing his chest. “I’ve never ridden a horse.”

“Well, then,” you said brightly, ruffling his hair as he stared on in horror, seeing nothing in particular. “There’s a first time for everything. I suppose we have our next lesson laid out before us.”

Wriothesley’s eyes snapped to yours. “We’re going riding?”

“Yes,” you said. You flicked a sly look at him out of the corner of your eye as you turned, weaving your arm back through his. ‘Like on a horse’.”

a/n: wrio: haha it's totally fine to be actually attracted to the person i am pretending to be attracted to. just physical attraction. totally normal. nothing to see here

i have been really looking forward to this chapter. it’s more character study than plot but after this, we get into the real thick of things :) honestly i could spend 200,000 words just ruminating on this guy's character and potential past. i want to put this man under a microscope. hoyo give me more challenge!!

also, to answer a question i got in a comment and a couple DMs - no clorinde/wriothesley will be happening here! i avoid writing/reading love triangles like the plague because they do not spark joy for me, personally. in here, wrio and clorinde are just good friends! clorinde has other prospects <3

i have been bad about naming songs from the titles, this chapter's title is from 'runaway' by AURORA

[fandom-nerd5225]

Across the Spiderverse

Ok so I have been obsessing over this movie since I first saw it around a year ago, and I've always felt like this frame was so poignant but I could never quite figure out why. Anyway I rewatched Spiderverse again last night and I have Thoughts.

This frame packs so much meaning, for one Miles is upside down and sort of displaced while Gwen is grounded looking at things how she is "supposed to" which perfectly illustrates where they both are character development wise at this point in the movie.

Miles who has felt lost since the great adventure last time, who just wants to find a place where he belongs and is desperately searching for those people who briefly gave him that sense of belonging, Miles who is overwhelmed and his life is slowly falling apart around him mainly because of spiderman. Miles who has always had support in his mom and dad and is at the point where he is considering telling them about who he really is.

Gwen who lost her dad her one last support by a huge betrayal of trust, who didn't have the chance to even try and make amends before she was whisked away to another world. Gwen who learned and wholeheartedly believes Miguel when he says that her dad is going to die. Gwen who has spent months catastrophizing and worrying and building up her anxiety. Gwen who at this point is pretty settled in spider society and who has friends. She goes on missions she has a mentor; she has everything she has ever wanted and nothing she needs. But she is settled she likes (or at least is comfortable with) where she is, she's not searching for more she already found it.

I firmly believe that if Miles hadn't jumped through that portal that truly would have been the last time he saw Gwen (If we're ignoring spot which we are) that would have been her one last mistake and she would have never gone back.

Where Miles would have this renew his already strong determination to try and find his friends after his one last night of fun with his friend who he desperately wants to see again.

Basically Miles is Gwen's last mistake, and Gwen is Miles' catalyst for change.

Miles said "We're the same" but they aren't and they never have been beyond the most basic level of being spider-people, they are in fact on pretty opposite ends in terms of development and trust levels. And over the course of the movie they end up swapping those side, Miles gains confidence and surety and Gwen loses her home and surety that she is doing the right thing.

Tldr: Miles and Gwen are at such opposite points in development it's truly baffling and the almost poetic meaning in this shot is a gut punch every time I watch this movie.

PS Did I finally make a Tumblr account so I had somewhere to scream about this? Not that you can prove.

PPS don't mind the shitty image quality I couldn't screenshot it so I just took a picture of screen

[maxwell-grant]

Fuck it, can you expand on your thoughts regarding What Can We Know About Thunderman?

One of the funniest and most horrible things I've ever read partially because like 60% of it is just pages and pages of Alan Moore stating industry facts and names with the serial numbers filed off, and if you have enough comic book brainworms to be reading Thunderman in the first place there will probably be at least one or a dozen references here and there that will spring out of nowhere and hit you like a punch in the gut (the one I remember was the Jack Cole one). A lot of the stuff in Thunderman that reads as absurd funny parody or metaphors too stupid to be real are actual industry facts that Moore has knowledge of, and even the stuff that isn't you can trace a direct line of what exactly it's referring to or who exactly this is referencing.

This is a story in part about how horrible it is to be a sicko with comic book brain worms that is mainly understandable if you're exactly that kind of person. Besides all the references to real-life people and events, most of the modern stuff he's making up are still just as incisive and accurate because literally nothing changed, not even in regards to the movie paradigm ("At last he has attained a semblance to a religious figure. Can we stop now?"). Much of this is Moore dunking on Certain Industry Guys he probably knew and interacted with and indirectly bullseyeing on more recent guys, because a lot of these guys are the same. There are your extremes like the one con-goer here who is pretty much just Max Landis verbatim, but there's also so much that's brutally on-point for industry practices and writers ("What if we had Thunderman do something, and then something happened?") that you can fill in your own names.

It's also an incredibly personal and tragic piece because the core story of it, in between vivid descriptions of Greg Land's office space porn oceans and self-destructive daydreams and rolling catastrophes, is about a guy who deeply loves his art form, deeply loves the creators and artists who gave him so much for so little in his life, and deals with so much horrible toxic bullshit that the only way he finds to live, the only way he finds to not be complicit in the pigsty, is to leave it all behind and work the poison out of his system forever. Like he very openly talks about the protagonist leaving it all behind to go write the next big novel and writing that note, and the non-superhero ideas that will come after, as something that nobody is going to care about, but that he has to do. I don't think I could fully appreciate the sequence where he quits his job at comics and walks out of the office feeling better than ever, until I myself got fired from an incredibly stressful job that made a thing I love (video editing) into the bane of my existence, and no amount of money worries in the world could make me not feel at that moment like I was walking home to the sunniest day of the year.

It wasn't only how much better life was without comics that had startled him, but also how the comics business looked, viewed from outside. How small it was; how cruel and how ridiculous. All the warped personalities the industry either attracted, or else bent and fashioned for itself out of naïve enthusiasts who'd been expecting something else. He couldn't understand why he'd not bailed out of the business years ago, though in a way he could. Part of the answer was just plain human inertia, and part was the fact that, from the inside, comics people and their weird behaviour could seem almost normal.

Dan was grateful he'd escaped in time, though he'd admit that even that escape was qualified. Removing himself from the comics field was one thing, stopping thinking about comics was another. Constantly, he'd find his mind alighting on some decomposing gobbet from the mental garbage-tip of trivia that his career had left him with, when that was the last thing he wanted to be thinking of. He probably should have anticipated some sort of reaction - thirty-something years in any field would leave you with a lot of baggage, and especially an enterprise almost designed to be obsessional, like comics -

His fantasy that he could be a proper literary author, living miles from anywhere and shunning interviews like Salinger or Pynchon, had congealed over this last few months from idle dream to psychological necessity. He'd put his farewell dossier together, and it was published without eliciting much in the way of a reaction or response, but the important thing for Dan was that he'd written it. His lip was better and he could speak normally again, since, for some reason, having quit the comics world, he was no longer trying to eat himself alive. Dan was committed, now, to his new life, and there could be no vacillating. Change or die, those were his options.

And putting aside the fact that "Dan" is killed by the Vince Coletta stand-in and the story itself ends in a much bleaker and more horrible note, to me that feels like Moore being very honest, as depressing as it may be, that nothing else he ever does is gonna get the kind of buzz and following and money and praise that he did for his corporate superhero droppings, and he still doesn't regret one bit what he left behind, and he's going to make the weird magic lizard stories he actually wants to do until he dies and try to not think about superheroes ever again even though he will obviously never fully succeed. Not just because it won't leave him alone, but because it's a part of his life. He loves stories, he loves art, he loves comics, and if not now, he very clearly deeply loved superheroes once, and maybe he still does if he can put aside the sheer nightmare bullshit toxicity attached to them that he's dealt with. I'd even point to a recent occasion he did try just that, with the character of Captain Universe, who accomplishes maybe the only real heroic act in LOEG: Tempest when he stops an atomic bomb from leveling England and ends the story with his big heartfelt wedding.

LOEG is the dead last place you'd expect Moore to place a heartfelt send-off to his superhero work, and much of it gets obscured by that asylum sequence where he savages existing IP capes and the farcical elements of the team and other criticisms at the genre, but it's there, and it's maybe the only story that has a happy ending in the book even. With Captain Universe, a character who has no real history, Moore is able to put all feelings for superhero IP and the big two aside and do this platonic ideal of a superhero and the creative possibilities and hopeful fantasy of a superhero. He's willing to poke holes in the guy and ruthlessly make fun of his shitty allies and villains, but LOEG affords Captain Universe an almost shocking degree of dignity (plus the existence of the canceled Superverse, which was going to be a LOEG-esque project with superheroes done with Rick Veitch tying in to The Show, showing Moore had plans to try writing superheroes again on his own terms even after everything). I think Thunderman in large part is about conciliating these feelings with a large degree of autobiography.

That's one emotional core of the story, but mainly I remember Thunderman for being really fucking funny. The EC Comics hearing. The porn ocean odyssey. Stan Lee Stan Lee-ing so hard he nearly gets killed by gangsters over it and one chapter detailing his transition from person to Character. Marvel was all along a CIA conspiracy to promote radiation poisoning. The chapter that's entirely dedicated to Moore stopping the story to riff and review the Superman movies. This books swings widly and it's an incredibly entertaining read.

And maybe the most horrible thing about Thunderman isn't in the way it's protagonist meets it's end or in the final chapter or even *gestures broadly at all of it*, it might just be the chapter before Alan Moore drops his Superman movie reviews, because with it comes the realization that yes, Alan Moore has been to Reddit, and has looked enough into reddit superhero discourse to be able to plausibly imitate it, which means he probably has sat through at least one argument about him too many. The stand-out of that chapter is the bit where he's riffing on Cavill's mustache fiasco and the DCEU, but it also includes some bits that now read as pretty perfect bullseye jabs at the MCU's current state of affairs.

[crystalsprinklescake]

Izzy was such a delight in ep 5 but I haven’t heard anyone talk about the emotional gut punch of Izzy falling back into his old Blackbeard crush with the line WHat did Blackbeard say about me Specifically? So let’s talk about it. Let’s talwk about it.

The man is still recovering from his trauma. Yes, he’s decided to move forward, but he’s still putting all that anger and despair into his Mind Box and separating himself from reality to keep himself safe for now.

I think the leg got bit by a shark/I fucked around and found out mind fuck is. Fine. For now. But not letting go of the Blackbeard crush? Yikes.

It really makes me feel like Izzy’s romantic/sexual feelings for Blackbeard were really always an escapist fantasy. He realized too late that Ed hated himself/his piratesona to the point of waaaay above average violence and self-destruction. Which is why it’s a bit concerning Izzy still hangs on to the fantasy of his Blackbeard crush after that fucked up shit storm just happened and left him with cut off body parts.

Blackbeard died. Blackbeard is dead, there is no other way for Ed to move forward if he is going to keep on living (although I just read a short post about how some folks are afraid Ed is going to slip back into his old ways. Tell me more).

So, Izzy doesn’t just love a fantasy, he loves a ghost. He’s not ready to meet Ed where he’s at right now. And that’s fair after what they have all been through. He’s not ready to confront that relationship. He needs. A safe space. So does Ed. They are healing away from each other so far and that makes sense

As much as I’m firmly in the Izzy needs a found family to heal and not a romantic relationship… I dunno, it seems like he needs a new baddie to pine after to get a fresh start and let go of his trauma with Ed.

We’ll have to wait and see. I trust the writers will deliver something emotionally satisfying. like they always have. Ed/Izzy or Steddyhands would be…. Not that. It would be. Emotionally catastrophic. Even if they all healed. I think it would still lead to old wounds resurfacing. So, I’m not really worried about the show going in that direction. And hey, if it did I’m sure the writers could come up with something great and make me change my mind and love it. But. Right now. Well, it leaves a very bad taste in my mouth. But, if anyone reading this loves those ships, no hate, we are all at the same table enjoying the same meal (the show itself) and whatever keeps you happy and engaged with the show is what’s important, we need that engagement if we are going to get a third season! Enjoy.

[cryptic-symbols]

antidote for strychnine hits me square in the chest u guys.

it starts with those dead measures of droning keyboard that feel like a gut punch of dread. its some guy in his garage scraping together printouts and trying to reverse a suicide attempt. but it is also a noble quest to avert war, an assassin trying to hold back political catastrophe after hitting the wrong target. these are the same thing in your heart—you are the ill-fated hero of your own story. you cast yourself as the reclusive genius and shut out all help towards recovery. it begs the question: what poisons are you taking? do you really hope they’ll work, could you really stomach it?

the song walks you through the panic, rising and rising like a slow dawning with the drumbeat and the shaker heartbeat. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. what do I do now? fuck. then it all crashes into that same drone like a flatline.

fuck. its so vivid. still gives me chills.

[dc-and-arfrona]

Birthday Wishes

—-

Jason Todd x GN!Reader

Type: Angst/Fluff

Word Count: 1.2k+

Masterlist

Summary: He forgot it was your birthday : ( 

— It was a bright and sunny day in Gotham City, and you were eagerly awaiting the arrival of your birthday. As the clock ticked closer to midnight, you couldn't help but feel a little excited. You had dropped hints here and there, subtly reminding Jason of the impending special day. After all, you had been together for quite some time now, and he knew how much your birthday meant to you.The night before your birthday, Jason had been out on a particularly intense mission. He had taken down a group of heavily armed criminals, preventing a potential catastrophe. Exhausted from the fight, he returned home just as the sun began to rise. However, the fatigue had taken its toll on him, causing him to fall into a deep sleep as soon as he hit the bed.As the day dawned, you woke up with a hopeful smile, eagerly anticipating the surprises Jason had planned for you.

 You tiptoed into the kitchen, expecting to see a table adorned with breakfast treats and presents, but to your dismay, it was empty. Confusion mixed with disappointment filled your heart.Hours passed, and with each passing minute, your disappointment turned into sadness. Doubts began to creep in, wondering if Jason had actually forgotten your birthday. 

Trying to push those negative thoughts away, you decided to confront him about it.You made your way to the training room, where you knew Jason would be found. The sound of clashing metal and grunts of effort filled the room as you stepped in. Jason's focus was entirely on the targets in front of him, his concentration unbreakable."Jason," you called out, your voice barely above a whisper. He didn't respond, his movements precise and lethal. "Jason!" you tried again, this time a little louder.Startled, Jason paused, turning to face you.

 Beads of sweat dripped down his forehead, and he looked at you with a mix of surprise and concern. "Hey, what's wrong?" he asked, his voice laced with genuine worry.Taking a deep breath, you tried to steady your emotions. "Do you... Do you remember what today is?" you asked, your voice barely audible.

Jason's eyes widened, realization dawning on him. He had completely forgotten, and the realization hit him like a punch to the gut. "Oh no," he muttered, his voice filled with regret. "I'm so sorry, Y/N. I can't believe I forgot."Tears welled up in your eyes, a mixture of hurt and disappointment. "I thought... I thought you cared," you whispered, your voice trembling.Jason approached you, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek. "No, Y/N, it's not like that. I do care, more than you could ever imagine," he said, his voice filled with sincerity. "I messed up, and I'm truly sorry. I'll make it up to you, I promise."

You sniffled, your heart aching for his touch, despite the hurt. "How can you make it up to me?" you asked, your voice tinged with doubt.A determined look crossed Jason's face as he met your gaze. "Let's start by canceling everything I had planned for the day," he said. "We'll spend the whole day together, doing whatever you want. Just tell me, and I'll make it happen."

You couldn't help but feel a glimmer of hope and a flicker of love reigniting within you. Despite his forgetfulness, Jason's genuine remorse and determination to make it right reminded you why you fell in love with him in the first place.With a small smile, you wiped away your tears and took his hand. 

"Okay, Jason. Let's start with a simple breakfast together," you suggested. "No missions, no distractions. Just you and me, celebrating my birthday."And with that, the two of you left the training room, ready to embark on a day of reconnection and love, hoping to create new memories that would overshadow the forgotten birthday, reminding you both of the strength of your bond.

The morning sun glistened upon the tranquil waters as Jason drove the two of you towards the beach. The tension from the previous day's disappointment began to dissipate with each passing mile. Sitting beside him, you couldn't help but feel a mix of anticipation and curiosity. What had Jason planned to make your day special?

As the car came to a stop, you stepped out onto the sandy shore, a gentle breeze tousling your hair. The salty aroma of the sea filled the air, evoking memories of carefree days spent beneath the warm sun. You turned to face Jason, a question forming on your lips, but before you could speak, he reached into a bag and pulled out a brightly colored beach towel.

"Close your eyes," he said with a mischievous grin. "I have a surprise for you."

Intrigued, you obliged and shut your eyes tightly, your heart pounding in anticipation. The sound of footsteps and the rustling of the bag filled the silence as Jason set up the towel behind you. You felt his warm hand on your shoulder, guiding you gently backward until your legs touched the soft fabric.

"Okay, you can open your eyes now," Jason whispered.

Slowly, you unveiled your eyes, and as the world came into focus, a beautiful scene unfolded before you. Colorful umbrellas dotted the shoreline, and a picnic basket overflowing with your favorite snacks beckoned from the towel. Jason had created a cozy oasis, just for the two of you.

A wide smile spread across your face, your heart swelling with joy. "Jason, this is amazing," you said, your voice filled with genuine appreciation.

He beamed, relief washing over him as he saw your delighted reaction. "I wanted to make today everything you deserve," he replied, his voice tender.

You settled down on the towel together, basking in the warmth of the sun and the comfort of each other's presence. The sound of crashing waves provided a soothing backdrop as you indulged in the delicious treats Jason had prepared.

As the day progressed, laughter filled the air as you engaged in friendly competitions building sandcastles, taking romantic walks along the water's edge, and enjoying refreshing dips in the ocean. Jason had gone above and beyond to create a day full of joy and adventure, and you couldn't have asked for anything more.

As the sun began its descent, casting vibrant hues across the sky, you found yourselves nestled together on the beach towel, watching the mesmerizing beauty unfold. The day had been a perfect blend of serenity, romance, and reconnection.

"I'm so sorry for forgetting your birthday, Y/N," Jason said, his voice tinged with regret. "But I hope today shows you how much you mean to me."

You turned to him, your eyes filled with love and forgiveness. "Jason, today has been incredible. It's not about the presents or the grand gestures; it's about the effort, the love, and the memories we create together," you replied, your voice filled with sincerity. "And today, you've given me all of that and more."

With a gentle touch, Jason brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, his eyes locked with yours. "I promise to cherish every moment we have together, to remember the little things that matter to you," he vowed.

And in that tender moment, as the sky painted a masterpiece above, you both understood that love was about more than just remembering birthdays—it was about the genuine effort, understanding, and growth that came from overcoming challenges together.

Wrapped in each other's arms, you watched the sun bid farewell to the day, knowing that your love had grown stronger, and that tomorrow held countless new memories waiting to be created.

[swearyshera]

I want to say I really respect how you're handling Glimmer's arc, her interactions with Bow in particular. Them dealing with the emotional fallout of this in a harsh and awkward but earnest way is really gratifying. I feels like pulling teeth in the best way possible. Glimmer's arc still rings amazingly to me and somehow hasn't diminished since the apology bit.

Is it weird that I "respect" Glimmer's redemption more than Catra's? I guess I always thought Glimmer's heart was in the right place despite like... everything she had going on. I never once felt Glimmer couldn't be redeemed and frankly my opinion on if Catra really "deserved" redemption still flips every time I think about it. If i thought I had a way to annihilate the people who took my family away, I don't know if I'd hesitate to top-rope elbow drop the Big Red Button even as much as Glimmer did. I guess that was Catra's rationale too on a deeper level, but at least Glimmer wasn't fine with the world dying once confronted with that reality, as sad a step up as that is. I feel like the fact I don't feel much sorrier for Catra reflects very poorly on me.

The series had a bad habit of Catra's choices having their more catastrophic potential consequences avoided so her redemption could go down smoother, my most prominent example being the corrupt shera virus. I'd pay damn good money to see how the story could even begin to salvage Adora and Catra's relationship if Adora killed someone like Glimmer or Bow under the effects of that. (not to mention the portal only kills one, albeit very important, person, Adora just happening to survive falling a pit, the story conspicuously forgetting about Angella etc) This sort of thing makes me think the author is cheating or working backwards from the ending they already want. Other characters were involved in some of those choices but that only expands the problem imo.

Glimmer's doesn't kill the universe either, but there's still disastrous consequences for Etheria and people she cares about, pretty much all of s5, and her story is all about understanding what she brought on them, and becoming a more responsible person to her friends/people. I really liked that. The only person Catra is really held accountable to is Adora, and maybe Perfuma on Scorpia's behalf. There's Entrapta but I dont think she operates in terms of blame/forgiveness, at least in canon. I know she literally forgave Catra explicitly, I guess I'm too mean to believe people could let go of stuff that "easily' and write it off like it doesnt count.

I know Catra's arc wanted a more intimate scale and they didn't have time to litigate all this, but my deep gut reaction is "tough shit, you shouldn't have had Catra do all that if you weren't gonna make her face what she'd done", especially since Adora makes a point that Catra is afraid to face people she hurt, then Mermista, Micah and Scorpia are conveniently chipped until the last minutes of the damn show. HP really did Catra a solid there. Glimmer's arc felt more willing to make her culpable in dire shit and not pull punches about it, even less so here, so sincere gratitude from me there. Not that Adora and Catra weren't put through hell but their s5 relationship seems to happen in its own little bubble safe from outside responsibility apart from Adora's martyrdom pathology.

Anyway, very excited to see how the Catra reunion will be handled given everything so far, and for Glimmer and Bow stuff. You've never done wrong by us yet. Sorry for this fucking thesis. Please feel free to point all the ways I'm being a myopic dumbass.

I always see Catra and Glimmer as two sides of the same coin - the same person but treated very differently by those around them. Glimmer had love and forgiveness from the people she grew up with, particularly her mother, whereas Catra had none of that outside of Adora.

But I think the end of season 4, start of season 5, we see a little bit of a flipside of that, and that's what starts making both of them wiser, more mature, etc. Up until then, Glimmer had never really had to deal with consequences for her actions - her mother, outside of grounding her, didn't appear to really punish her when she did things wrong. Even Bow, at least until Fractures, felt he always had to support and agree with her (and his own arc played into that). But when Glimmer decided to plough ahead with her plan to activate the Heart and ignore her friends, she actually had serious consequences for once. She had to deal with losing friendships, attracting Prime. And that wasn't something she'd really had to deal with.

Catra, by contrast, always had negative consequences to even the slightest of actions. Usually by Shadow Weaver, and then by Hordak, she was punished for her mistakes. But in season 5, she gets shown kindness and forgiveness despite her actions, and it too, becomes a turning point for her.

I also don't really see the story as 'redemption'. It's not about Catra or Glimmer redeeming themselves, it's about accepting you've done wrong and making the choice to be better. Yes, they do have apologies to make, wrongs to right, and we don't see a lot of that in the show. But we don't need to. What we see is Glimmer becoming more levelheaded and choosing to use that in place of recklessness. We see Catra choosing to return to Adora in Heart not for herself, but for Etheria. Both these young women have done things that have had a huge negative impact on other people, but they both end up trying to do better, to be better.

Redemption is based on how other people treat you. This is a story about how you treat yourself. Both are important.

[morphinemilkshake]

About two years ago, I made a set of leprechauns for a Lord of Space. I'm not very happy with how it turned out back then, so I redesigned them :-} Info about them under the cut:

LOONIE ABILITY: Whenever LOONIE would receive any bodily harm, he instead teleports away unharmed, the distance being proportional to the damage he would have taken. For instance, teleporting away from a slap to the face will place him somewhere else in the same room, whereas an attempt to punch him in the gut would displace him somewhere in the same house or general area. Teleporting away from fatal damage, for example a bullet to the head, will place him extremely far away, potentially even on a different continent. CONCEPT: A “LOONIE” is a slang term for a 1$ Canadian coin depicting a common loon.

SWAN ABILITY: SWAN can instantly swap places with any other being. This ability has no limit to the distance it can be performed over. CONCEPT: The number 2 looks like a SWAN, and the word “SWAN” is very close to the word “swap”.

MOUSTACHE ABILITY: MOUSTACHE is an excellent housemaid, performing tasks efficiently and quickly. He is also tied to a JUJU: a silver bell which can be used to instantly summon MOUSTACHE to any location in space. He must at the very least attempt whatever he is tasked with when the JUJU is used. CONCEPT: The number 3 looks like a MOUSTACHE. The sort of butler-ey aesthetic comes bundled in with it.

MANNY ABILITY: MANNY can multiply the amount of himself by two, creating an exponentially growing army of clones. These clones commune through a shared subconscious, and their memories are absorbed by other living instances when one dies. MANNY can also divide the amount of himself by two, manually absorbing other instances of himself. CONCEPT: 4 is the smallest squared prime number, which is thematically appropriate because of MANNY’s ability to endlessly multiply.

MARSHALL ABILITY: MARSHALL can ATTRACT and REPEL things, kind of like a more limited telekinesis. This allows him to nab objects from a distance, pull foes towards him or, inversely, away from him, and even force bullets to stop in the air before they reach him. CONCEPT: Stars, especially five-pointed ones, are often used in military ranks. Stars, the actual celestial bodies, have strong gravitational properties.

RUBIK ABILITY: RUBIK can create PERFECTLY GENERIC OBJECTS. CONCEPT: A cube has six faces, and one of the most famous cubes is the RUBIK’s cube.

SUNDAY ABILITY: SUNDAY has passive reality-bending properties, which mostly manifest as an extension of his general disinterest and laziness. Hallways become shorter as he passes through them, bullets curve away because he can’t be bothered to duck in time, items appear in his pockets because he doesn’t want to look for them, and so on. CONCEPT: SUNDAY is the 7th day of the week. People don’t usually work or want to work on Sundays.

CYCLES ABILITY: Some catastrophic event keeps CYCLES trapped in an infinite Groundhog Day loop. This unknown terminus sends CYCLES back again and again to iterate in doomed offshoots over and over, stuck trying to understand its nature and find a solution to overcome it. This predicament has allowed him to accumulate an immense amount of prescient knowledge through first-hand experience, so much so that he is almost never caught off-guard. CONCEPT: The number 8 can be turned sideways to form the symbol of infinity.

GARRY ABILITY: GARRY is in possession of a powerful and mysterious JUJU called the ARCHITECH CALIBER. Using the ARCHITECH CALIBER one may WELD THINGS TOGETHER, PAINT OBJECTS, DELETE OBJECTS or even CREATE BALLOONS and ROPE out of NOTHING. Naturally, the creative use of this JUJU could have disastrous consequences. That is why only GARRY is allowed to have it, as he is yet to demonstrate the capacity for creative thought. CONCEPT: The number 9 looks like the letter g. The JUJU is the toolgun from Garry’s Mod, obviously. You’ll never guess why the guy is named Garry.

PIXIE ABILITY: PIXIE can grow and shrink at will. He can also do a lot of other inconsequential magical bullshit, like summoning forest critters and changing the color of objects, among other things. His elvish magics are governed by incomprehensible rules he refuses to share with anybody. CONCEPT: Dixie is the slang term for a Canadian 10$ bill, and it sounds very close to PIXIE. His nature is a reference to Fae-folk, of which pixies are a member.

POLES ABILITY: POLES wears a suspiciously POLES-shaped JUJU that looks like a spacesuit. It allows POLES to control how gravity affects him. He can reduce the pull he experiences to jump higher and descend slower, levitate in zero-gravity, or even change the direction of gravity for himself, walking on walls and ceilings. CONCEPT: Apollo 11 was perhaps the most famous space mission; it was during it that man first took steps on the surface of the moon. Poles’ aesthetic references that. 11 also looks like two poles next to each other.

LOADER ABILITY: LOADER can shrink and un-shrink things for easier, compact storage. He is also pretty strong, able to lift things most others can’t. CONCEPT: Loaders unload crates and boxes; cuboids have 12 edges. He unloads stuff, also.

FANGS ABILITY: FANGS can enter THE FOURTH DIMENSION. As it is extraneous to three-dimensional normal-Space, he is not only untouchable within it, but can also cover great distances and reach normally unreachable areas before re-emerging into normal-Space. Using this ability, FANGS can travel faster and more efficiently, as well as stalk victims, waiting for the perfect time to ambush them. The limitation to emerging in and out of THE FOURTH DIMENSION is that FANGS has to enter and exit it unseen, as he is quantum-locked in normal-Space when observed. CONCEPT: Ophiuchus, the snake bearer constellation to which Caliborn owes his symbol, is the unofficial 13th constellation. FANGS has elements stylized after the cherubs, like his swirly cheeks, and has general snake-like characteristics. His behavior as an ambush predator is also snake-like.

CASTLE ABILITIES: CASTLE contains a POCKET DIMENSION inside of himself: a 14x14x14 green room. He can transform his body into a gateway leading inside this POCKET DIMENSION, allowing himself to become a portable source of storage or protection. If CASTLE so chooses, the gateway can violently suck in everything in front of him. Everything caught within the POCKET DIMENSION will be trapped there, until CASTLE opens the gateway to it. CONCEPT: A fortnight is a period of fourteen days. Forts and castles are both fortified structures.

COMMODORE ABILITY: COMMODORE, or just ‘DORE for short, can PUNCH THROUGH TOPOLOGY creating temporary holes in the fabric of Space itself. These can connect impossibly vast distances as two-way portals, but heal over time and cannot exceed the boundaries of a Universe. Punching through the exterior of a Universe would be pretty irresponsible. CONCEPT: COMMODORE is a cockney term for a 15-pounder bill. It is also a navy title, in reference to which COMMODORE dons his sailor hat. ‘DORE also sounds like “door”, which references his ability to create temporary gateways a little bit.

[oddygaul]

Godzilla Minus One

I’ve been going through something of a Godzilla crash course for the past year or so. When I was pretty little, I think I once rented a VHS of the original Godzilla from my local library. I don’t remember almost anything, but I think the themes and talking went over my head and I was mostly disappointed he wasn’t punching another monster. Then, I got a McDonald’s toy of the 1998 Godzilla, which was in my regular school backpack rotation for a while, and... that was about the extent of my experience with the guy.

Two of my best friends, though, are huge Godzilla stans who grew up watching just about every movie that’s ever released. After discovering my innocence, they’ve taken it upon themselves to educate me in his big scaly ways.

Most of these screenings were well before I started keeping this journal, so I don’t have deep thoughts on them. We started with Godzilla Against Mechagodzilla - wasn’t impressed by the robotic human characters, but Kiryu is sick as fuck, no getting around it. Next was Anno’s Shin Godzilla - as a lifelong Evangelion fan, I was really tickled by how much the entire movie felt like an extended, live-action Operation Yashima sequence, and the half dozen remixes of Decisive Battle were the icing on the cake. Final Wars, despite clearly being made by some folks who had just seen The Matrix and wanted in on that action, was exactly my kind of schlock and I honestly can’t wait to rewatch it. Tokyo SOS was kind of forgettable? …outside of the scene where the rival punches a fly out of the air one inch from someone’s face, which I now do weekly. And finally, All Monsters Attack was a wild fever dream of a movie; the plot is about a child vividly hallucinating Godzilla fighting giant crabs and shit in order to deal with his own growth and confidence issues, and that all works… exactly as well as it sounds like it would work. Overall, I’ve certainly enjoyed my time with the franchise, but it’s certainly in a more, I dunno, popcorny way.

So color me surprised having seen Minus One and being genuinely impressed on all fronts!

This is easily the most compelling human storytelling out of all the Zils I’ve watched. To be honest, during the long gap between Godzilla’s introduction and his reappearance in the plot, I got so fully invested in the characters and the story that was unfolding, it was a little jarring having a big monster show up. The emotional core of the story, based around a found family trying to find meaning in their lives in a devastated, post-war Japan, was genuinely engaging, well-acted, and absorbing. I guess Godzilla being there is what got my butt into the seat, but I honestly wouldn’t have minded a more grounded take on this scenario/era either.

I quite liked that Godzilla’s design in this movie felt focused around his aquatic habitat - he felt very lithe, crocodilian and deadly in the water.

Similarly, after spending so much time digging into the hopelessness felt at large by the citizens we see, and the widespread devastation of Tokyo after the firebombing, Godzilla coming in and attacking Ginza felt like a gut punch. Typically, in the Godzillas I’ve watched, at least, the moment where Godzilla finally shows up and wrecks shop is a moment for the audience to cheer. You recognize that the horror and destruction he’s wreaking is bad, of course, but for one reason or another the blow is usually softened tonally. In Shin Godzilla, for example, we watch plenty of montages of Japan’s well-oiled, calm evacuation plans being carried out, so we’re not worried as much about the human toll. In the more creature feature entries, like Tokyo SOS, these type of scenes are more WWE throwdown than human catastrophe - the city’s really just backdrop, and it’s time to get hype. Minus One even has some moments like this, in my opinion - the scene when Godzilla first engages the battleship and they cut off his iconic roar has strong “real done with your shit” vibes that make the film’s debut atomic breath a real crowd-pleaser.

But man, the Ginza scene? Absolutely devastating. Panicked, weary crowds, scores of people visibly trampled underfoot, the black rain calling back to Japan’s nuclear strikes… the entire scene is designed to be a nightmare, and I thought it was a powerful decision in a franchise movie to make the viewer squirm and wish the titular character hadn’t shown up at all.

“Godzilla, bro, look. My job? The job I’m working to feed this orphan who showed up on the doorstep of my dead parents' house? That job is shooting active mines out of the ravaged coasts of my country on a fishing boat at great personal risk to myself and my only friends. Did we really need this? Was this warranted? Could you just like, fuck off?”

Overall, I just can’t get over how strong the character work and theming was. There’s a lot of musing on the value of a life, survivor’s guilt, and people grappling with the aftermath of a lost war while figuring out how they can still make a difference in their community. In the opening scene, you can already tell from the conversation between the main character and the engineer that they both understand the war is over, and yet Shikishima carries guilt with him the entire movie about not committing the meaningless sacrifice his country asked of him. He’s absolutely wracked with guilt, feeling that he’ll be rejected by society for failing - and to a degree he is, especially in the first act. After that, though, time and time again, the movie shows a community coming together, refusing to let each other give in and succumb to guilt, and finding ways to rebuild their home and move forward on their own terms, rather than under the direction of a government that's abandoned them.

The standout scene for me was Shikishima’s trauma coming to a peak when he wakes up at night and questions if he’s been dead all along, wondering if his current life is just a hallucination. I feel like I’ve seen that exact scene or moment in other media before, but it always felt like empty words, unconvincing; here, the buildup and acting was just so stellar that I fully resonated with this broken man and bought every word.

[randomwriteronline]

"Would you like to be made aware of an incredible biological fact," Briosa says, notably not asking.

Emmet is going through possibly the worst type of day. He has willingly constrained himself to the empty tables of the control room and to his office despite being barely of any help in either location (effectively just going back and forth between them as though he kept forgetting something he had walked in to get, trying to be useful but keeping himself very far away from anything actually important and necessary for the station to function) because he knows that any second now, something small and mildly upsetting will happen, and he knows that any second now, he's going to have a horrible, exhausting breakdown, and if he were on a train that would lead to catastrophic results. He is, very visibly, one second away from falling apart. He is not in the mood to be amused.

He nods.

"Each morning I wake up and thank every single one of my ancestors for biologically engineering me with the smallest breasts to have ever been known in the history of humankind," his brother's substitute informs him.

.

.

.

Alright.

"Everytime I lay face up it's a free mastectomy."

Emmet wheezes like he just got a punch straight to the gut. After a moment of baffled silence, he wheezes harder, leaning heavily on the table, and tries to give her a bewildered look; he fails, because he is still wheezing too much.

Sounding more and more like a large teapot left too long on the stove his knees bend slowly and he sinks to sit in his heels on the floor, forehead ruefully finding itself sliding against the metal frame of the piece of furniture as his chest spasms like something is going to leap out of it while he laughs uncontrollably. He tries to groan as his stomach starts hurting but ends up wheezing some more instead. His face is so red he looks like he's either crying his heart out or about to explode.

Briosa stares him down with a satisfied little bastard smile of hers.

[lilnasxvevo]

MXTX putting Shen Jiu’s backstory in the “extras” volume of Scum Villain is so crazy because, look, by that point you’ve basically finished the book, the story is over, you’re pretty sure you understand what the book is “about” because you’ve read all the important parts, right? WRONG. Honestly, I think that learning Shen Jiu’s backstory in the extras recontextualized the entire novel for me and made me totally rethink what I thought the themes were, what I thought it was “about,” and what I thought the author wanted us to take away from it. Maybe I’m just dense but I didn’t understand how thoroughly the book was about cycles of violence until I read that chapter—and the way that everyone, EVERYONE, deserves mercy. Another interesting thing that I think that chapter does is, like—look, MXTX loves to write about how catastrophically damaging spreading rumors can be, it’s a theme in MDZS as well (and maybe TGCF but idk that book), but all through SVSSS it’s always “oh no, all the characters believe this really bad thing about Blorbo and only the reader and Blorbo know the truth.” You get to feel the horror and dread of being a target of the rumor mill while feeling safe in the belief that YOU would never do something like that. By waiting so long to tell us the truth about Shen Jiu, MXTX pulls the rug out from under us and says “You do this bad thing too! You’re doing it right now! You’ve been doing it the whole book!”

And your heart breaks for this man who you’ve just spent literally the whole entire book despising and looking down on.

It is so well-done and it’s such a satisfying gut-punch and it’s IN THE EXTRAAAAAS THE PART OF THE BOOK THAT NOT EVERYONE EVEN REAAAAAADSSSSSS

[tequitoclown]

No Man's Sky main story spoilers!

Man, I just replayed the main story again and it never fails to punch me in the gut. Figuring out what 16 really means, saying goodbye to everyone... It's heavy. Nothing will come close to the feeling of playing it for the first time, but even now it gives me emotions.

// CATASTROPHIC SYSTEM FAILURE //

// 16... 16... -kzzt- //

...

// 16 MINUTES OPERATIONAL TIME REMAINING. //

[inhuman-casualties]

Book Review - The Gate To Women's Country, Sheri S Tepper

Sherri Tepper's 1988 science fiction novel, The Gate to Women's Country, takes place three hundred years after a catastrophic war has decimated human civilization. In the US Pacific Northwest, female survivors have established a network of walled cities that adhere to a matriarchal social and political order.

I found the book tucked away in an old box in a second-hand store and, after having resoluted myself to read 100 books by the end of the year, I was very excited to start with a Tepper book. (I had previously read Shadow's End, which was as bizarre as it was amazing, and looked forward to finding my next one)

I read it over two weeks when I had the time to give myself, and finished it last night, after having told my partner "We'll go to sleep as soon as I finish this chapter", only to turn the page and find, brutally, that I had finished the book; which is a horrid feeling.

Reading a Tepper book can be difficult at first because she just plops you in the middle of the action and you have to scramble in a world you don't know until you kind of understand and get strung along by force and then when you think you have everything figured out she hits you with the most gut-wrenching plot twists that leave you reeling.

The Gate to Women's Country was just that. A gut punch that leaves you breathless and insanely, begging for more. It was gripping and rapidly paced, gorgeous and sorrowful; a wonderful insight into our history and what the future might bring.

The world- and character- design was breathtaking, the plot was brilliant and the twists left me incredulous.

It does bear mentioning that it is almost entirely cisgender and heterosexual, an indication of the era it was written in. The erasure of homosexuality is bothering, but I believe it could be because Tepper wanted the focus to be on specific issues - however, the nature in which she dealt with it was not ideal, treating it as a thing to be cured, which is harmful.

It is a fantastic meditation on gender and violence, raising difficult questions with uncomfortable answers, and isn't without ideological problems that can be discussed and worked out.

CONTENT WARNING: Misogyny, religion, rape and sexual assault, disparaging takes on sex work, eugenics, domestic violence, loss of a child, homophobia/genocide, suicide, violence

[emotionalvulcan]

yayyy vent time and by vent time I mean complaining-about-ib-econ-and-my-unfortunate- and-horribly-catastrophic-choice-in-picking-that-class time

so was it the worst choice I've ever made in my life?...

most likely

number 1 factor in my annoying period of extra depression² ?...

mhm yes

do I have an exam tomorrow that I am not at all equipped to do?...

absolutely

is there blood rushing in my ears with no signs of stopping?...

seems like it

are my nails and surrounding skin destroyed?...

of course, you best believe it

am I also procrastinating writing this stupid paper II mock exam that is like ¼ complete?...

unfortunately yes (pls end me, what a horrible fate awaits me)

should I have listened when the smartest person I know told me to switch out of this class?...

yes I really fucking should have they were right like always fuck

this isn't even accounting for the other horrifying stress that are in store for me

yes most of the suffering ends friday but that also means that I have until friday to not get fucked.... now lets see what awaits me

ah yes just your usual 1,000 words part ⅔ of my extended essay of which my diploma depnds on and then oh wow would you look at that... another like 1,000 word econ essay which... no way... my diploma also depends on... not to mention my usual list of homework

and now for an even sooner due date of lovely good old wednesday of which i have to finish 10 whole pages of a review packet for apush

opps and what's this... I have to go work at the library for some stupid 100 community hours that... wait... what's that?... my diploma also depends on? who would've guessed... this is literally so stupid what

I hate the public school sy- nono I hate the school system in general

especially ib

like I'm so sorry I have a life and am too stupid in math and don't understand a bunch of graphs

I do not care for your stupid knowledge

what I want to learn I will do so on my own and enjoy my time exponentially more than I ever would by sitting in your horrid prisons of paper and concrete

its funny too because I remember complaining to my mother about ib and telling her that I wanted to and that I could switch academies

then she offered

and wanting to be all strong and brave and whatever other bullshit I was feeling at the time

I chose to stay in it thinking i could do this alone

well would ya look at that losers

guess who's the one losing out in the end

the one time I didn't follow through with my cowardly coping mechanisms of running away from my problems

and what do I get for it?

tears in my face?

ridiculous

well actually the 2 times (not running from ib and not running from ib econ)

only need 3 more for it to be part of one of those fics "the 5 times blank did this and the one time blank did it back"

funny how it'll be over so soon but it sure doesn't feel like it

funny how it all feels so right and yet so wrong at all the same times and sometimes they just take turns

how I can be happy for such few days on the weekends when I get some breaks and then the weeks feel like nonstop punches to the gut

beyond elated for thanksgiving break since they give us a whole week off this year

only thing is...

that's next week

so it's almost like I have to get shot in the face before i can properly rest for a short while

watch me write more in this short time span than I ever will for my stupid paper II or aa2

also wtf I just spent like the last 30mins writing this I'm going to fail my exam tomorrow because I still have to finish the mock exam and then study