#i truly meant to have more written thoughts which is part of why it took longer

[twopercentboy]

For forty days and forty nights I have, in the dead of night, brushed my legs and wings against your petals and made honey that will only be your sweetness

I am not selfish, nor do I doubt my wings can beat against the petals of another

But if I fly by during as the days is bright and the other rose's thorn pricks me

or

the honey we made turns acrid

I hope this little honeybee and the rose he met in a field in the autumn

will still shine as the dew drops cool in the shady early morning

PoetAnon

honeybee metaphor poetry 🥰🫶

sorry it took me so long to respond to this one, this weekend has just been wack yk 😭

[copperbadge]

Hey Sam! Since it's currently AO3 donation time, I'm wondering what your thoughts are on it? I'm asking because you've written RPF and it's one of many "anti-AO3/anti-AO3 donations" people's favourite things to bring up when they're complaining about AO3 getting so many donations that it continuously obtains an excess of its donation goal whenever donation time rolls around? (Wow, how many times can I say "donation" in an ask?) Sorry if this question bothers you! I don't mean to offend or annoy.

Hey anon! Sorry it took a while to get to this, I don't even know if the drive is still going on, but the question came in while I was traveling and I didn't really have the time for stuff that wasn't travel-related. In any case, let's dig in! (I am not offended, no worries.)

So really there are two issues here and as much as some people who are critical of AO3 want to conflate them, they are different. While some criticism of AO3 may be valid, rhetoric against AO3 tends to misinterpret both in separate ways.

First there's the issue of what AO3 hosts -- RPF, yes, but more broadly, varied content that some people find distasteful or think should be illegal, which is a misunderstanding of the purpose of the archive and more broadly a dangerous attitude towards the concept of freedom of expression.

Second, there's the issue of AO3 generally outpacing its fundraising goals while not allowing monetization, which is a misunderstanding of the legal status of AO3 and to an extent a misunderstanding of philanthropy as a whole.

The longer I watch debates about content go on, the more I come to the conclusion that I was fortunate to have a teacher who really wanted to instill in us an understanding of free speech not as a policy but as an ongoing dialogue. It's not only that freedom of expression "protects you from the government, not the Justin" as the meme goes, but also that freedom of expression is not a static thing. It's an ongoing process of identifying what we find harmful in society and what we want to do about it.

Should the freedom to shout "Fire!" in a crowded theater be restricted? Should the freedom to yell slurs at drag performers? Should the freedom to teach prepubescent kids about gender, sexuality, and/or safe sex? Should the freedom to wear a leather puppy hood at Pride? Who gets to say, and why?

I was nine when my teacher did a unit on freedom of speech and the intersection of "harm prevention" and "censorship", which is (and should be) a discussion, not a set of ironclad rules. This ambiguity has thus been with me for over thirty years, and I'm comfortable with the ambiguity, with the process; I'm not sure a lot of people critical of AO3's content truly are. Perhaps some can't be, especially those affected by hate speech, but RPF is not hate speech. It's just fiction. Or is fiction "just fiction"? This is a question society as a whole is grappling with, although fandom seems to be a little out ahead of society in terms of how explicitly we discuss it.

The idea that prose can incite violence or cause harm is both valid to examine (witness the rise of fascism on the radio in the 20s, on Facebook and Twitter in the past ten years; they're very similar processes) and a very slippery slope. Because again: who decides what harm is, and what causes it, and what we do about it? Our values align us with certain beliefs, but those are only our values, not universal truths. So AO3 is part of the ongoing question of harm and benefit both to society and individuals.

AO3 itself, however, has a fairly defined policy that it is not meant to police content; it is an archive, not a bookstore or a school board. AO3 refines its TOS and policies as necessary, but the goal is always open access and as much freedom of expression as possible, and if that's uncomfortable for some people then that's a discussion we have to have; ignoring it won't make it go away. But it has to be a discussion, it can't be a unilateral change to the archive's TOS or a series of snaps and clapbacks, and I don't see a lot of people ready to move beyond flinging insults. Perhaps because they were taught a much more binary view of freedom of expression than I was.

So, self-evidently, I support AO3 and I don't have a problem with RPF. Whether other people do is something we're going to have to get to grips with, and that's likely to be a process that is still going on when most of us are dust. I'd rather have a century of ambiguity than a wrong answer tomorrow, anyway.

But whether AO3 hosts RPF is truly a separate issue from its donation drives, because it's a criticism some people level at the site which exists whether it's fundraising or not. So people can criticize AO3's open policy and they can give it as a reason not to support the site, but it's just one aspect of the archive and the fundraising as a whole should be examined separately.

I think AO3's fundraisers are deeply misunderstood (sometimes on purpose) because even people who are anticapitalist get a little crazy when money gets involved, and this is, to fandom, a lot of money -- a few hundred thousand, reliably, every fundraiser. To me, a fundraiser that pulls in three hundred grand is almost quaint; my current nonprofit pulls in better than ten million a year and my previous employer had an endowment of several billion dollars. At my old job I didn't even bother researching people who couldn't give us a hundred grand.

On the other hand, AO3 is an extreme and astounding outlier in the nonprofit world, because basically it's the only one of its kind to work the way it does. It is entirely volunteer-run on the operational side (ie: tag wranglers, coders, lawyers, etc) and has no fundraising staff (gift officers, researchers, outreach officers) as far as I'm aware. To pull in three hundred grand from individual one-time donations, without any paid staff and without even a volunteer fundraising officer? That's insane. That doesn't happen. Except at AO3.

What people misunderstand, however, is the basic status of a nonprofit, which is a legal status, not simply a social one. (I'm adding in some corrections here since it gets complicated and the terminology can be important!) The Organization for Transformative Works, the parent of AO3, is a nonprofit, which indicates how it was incorporated as an organization; additionally it is registered federally as tax-exempt, which carries certain perks, like not paying sales tax, and certain duties, like making their financials transparent to a certain extent. (Religious nonprofits are exempt from the transparency requirement.) If you're interested in more about nonprofits and tax-exempt status a reader dropped a great article here.

Nonprofits, unlike for-profit companies, cannot pay a share of their income to stakeholders. Nonprofits don't have financial stakeholders, only donors. They can have employees and pay them a salary -- that's me, for example -- but if a nonprofit pulls in $10M in donations, my salary is paid from that, I don't get a percentage and nobody else does either. That's what it means to be a nonprofit -- the money above operational costs goes back into the organization. The donations we (and AO3) receive must be plowed under and used for outreach, server maintenance, further fundraising, services expansion, et cetera. You can see this in the 990 forms on Guidestar or ProPublica, or in their more accessible breakdowns on Charity Navigator. Nonprofits that do not put the majority of their income towards service provision tend to get audited and lose their nonprofit status. So nobody's getting paid from all that money, and the overage that isn't spent goes into what is basically a savings account in the name of the nonprofit. (I'm vastly simplifying but that's the gist.) Using that money for personal purposes is illegal. It's called "private inurement" and there's a good article here about it. The money belongs to the OTW as a concept, not to anyone in or of the OTW.

So the biggest misunderstanding that I see in people who are mad at AO3 fundraisers is that "they" are getting all this money (who "they" are is never clearly stated but I'm pretty sure people think @astolat has a special wifi router that runs on burning hundred dollar bills) while "we" can't monetize our fanfic. But "they" get nothing -- nobody even earns a salary from AO3 -- and you can easily prove that by looking at the 990 forms they file with the government, which are required to be made public. You can see the most recently available 990, from 2020, here at Guidestar. Page seven will show you the "highest compensated" employees, all of whom are earning zero dollars or nonmonetary perks (that's the three columns on the right).

Either AO3 is entirely volunteer-run or someone's Doing A Real Fraud. The money the OTW spends is documented (that's page 10 and 11 primarily) and while they may pay for, say, the travel and lodging expenses of a lawyer going to DC to defend a freedom-of-expression case, they don't pay the lawyer for their time, or give them a cut of the income.

Despite what you've read, the reason "we" can't monetize our fanfics on AO3 has nothing to do with the site being the product of volunteer handiwork or AO3 having it in their terms of service or it being considered gauche by some to do so; it's because

IT'S ILLEGAL.

I cannot say this loudly enough: It is against the law for a nonprofit to be used by its staff, volunteers, or beneficiaries to earn direct profit from the services provided by the nonprofit.

You can be paid to work at one, but you cannot side-hustle by selling your handmade friendship bracelets for personal gain on the nonprofit's website. If the nonprofit knowingly allows monetization of its services, it can lose nonprofit status, be fined, be hit with back taxes, and a lot of other unpleasant bullshit can go down, including prosecution of those involved for fraud. If you put a ko-fi link on your fanfic, you are breaking the law, and if AO3 allows it, they are too.

Okay, that was a sidebar, but in some ways not, because it gets to the heart of the real complaints about AO3 fundraising, which is that people in fandom are sick or unhoused or in some form of need and other people in fandom are giving to AO3, a fan site that is financially stable, instead of giving to peoples' gofundmes or dropping money in their Ko-Fi or Paypal. And while it is a legitimate grievance that there are people who are in such desperate need while we live in an era of unprecedented abundance, that's not AO3's fault. AO3 doesn't solicit actively, there's no unasked-for mailings or calls from a gift officer. They just put a banner up on their website, and people give. (Again, this is incredibly outlier behavior in the nonprofit world, I'd do a case study on it but the conclusion would just be "shit's real, yo.") You might as well be mad that people give to their local food bank instead of someone's ko-fi.

You cannot lay at AO3's feet the fact that people want to give to AO3 instead of to your fundraiser. That's a choice individuals have made, and while you can engage with them in terms of why they made the philanthropic choices they did, to blame an organization they supported rather than the person who made the choice to give is not only incorrect but futile, and unlikely to win anyone over to supporting you. We know from research that guilt is not a tremendous motivator of philanthropy.

It is also not necessarily a binary choice; just because AO3 gets a hundred grand in $5 donations doesn't mean most of the people giving don't also give $5 elsewhere. I support the OTW on occasion, and I also fundraise for UNICEF and the Chicago Parks Foundation and BAGLY and others, in addition to giving monthly to several nonprofits that I have longterm relationships with -- my alma mater, the animal rescue where I got the Cryptids, my shul. And I give, occasionally and anonymously, to fundraisers that pass through Radio Free Monday, which are mainly individuals in need, because I was once in need and now I pay it forward. These are the choices I have made. Nobody twisted my arm. I respond poorly to someone making the attempt to do so by attacking places I've given.

I think the upshot is, after all of this that I've written, that we cannot begin to come to grips with questions of institutional inequality in philanthropy, or freedom of expression and censorship, until people actually understand what's going on, and too few do. So all I can do is try and explain, and hopefully create a forum for people to learn and grow when it comes to charitable giving.

Archive Of Our Own and the Organization for Transformative Works are products of our community and as that community changes, we will necessarily continue to re-evaluate what aspects of it mean and how AO3/OTW express the community sentiment. I hope that the ongoing discussion of support for AO3 also leads to people learning more about their philanthropic options. But criticizing AO3 for fundraising by attacking it for fulfilling one of its stated purposes is silly, and attempting to guilt people into giving in the ways one thinks they should give rather than how they do give is just going to make one extremely unlikable.

As members of this community, we have to be a part of the push and pull, but it's difficult to do that competently in ignorance. So, I do my best to be knowledgeable and to educate my readers, and I hope others will do the same.

[yandere-romanticaa]

Recently, the surge of AI has caught everyone's attention and I've been working on this little experiment.

Down below the cut are two fics and this is how I planned it - one was made up by using AI (more specifically, Chat Gpt) while the other one was written by yours truly. Below both fics will be a poll and I would like for you, my dear readers, to guess which one was AI. Personally, I don't think it'll be a difficult challenge but seeing your reactions and comments on this should prove to be an interesting endeavor.

This was posted on April 17th. And, in 7 days, I shall reveal which fic was written by me, and which one was done by AI.

Now then, let's get on with the show.

🥀 Story One.

In the dimly lit alleyways of Yokohama, Fyodor Dostoevsky stalks his obsession, (y/n), with unwavering determination. His fixation transcends reason, driving him to extreme lengths to possess (y/n)'s affection.

Fyodor's obsession with (y/n) began innocently enough, a mere curiosity sparked by their untapped potential and innocence. But as time passed, that curiosity twisted into an all-consuming desire, festering within Fyodor's mind like a venomous serpent.

Each night, Fyodor would follow (y/n) from a distance, his heart pounding with anticipation and longing. He would watch as (y/n) laughed with their friends, oblivious to the dark presence lurking in the shadows.

But Fyodor's love was not the gentle, nurturing kind. It was possessive, suffocating, and dangerously obsessive. He couldn't bear the thought of (y/n) belonging to anyone but him, couldn't stand the idea of anyone else basking in the warmth of (y/n)'s smile.

As his obsession deepened, Fyodor's mind became consumed with dark fantasies of possessing (y/n) completely. He would spend hours meticulously planning every detail of their future together, envisioning a life where they were inseparable.

But fantasies were not enough for Fyodor. He needed to make them a reality, no matter the cost. And so, he began to weave a web of deception and manipulation, carefully orchestrating events to bring (y/n) closer to him and drive away anyone who dared to stand in their way.

But as Fyodor's plans grew more elaborate, so too did the danger. (y/n)'s friends grew suspicious of Fyodor's intentions, sensing something sinister lurking beneath his charming facade. And as they delved deeper into Fyodor's past, they uncovered secrets that threatened to unravel his carefully constructed world.

But Fyodor was not about to let anyone come between him and his beloved. He would do whatever it took to protect their love, even if it meant resorting to violence.

🥀 Story Two.

Shimmering waves of starlight engulfed the man in white as he monitored his target from a safe distance, hollow purple eyes gleaming with excitement. He could feel his long fingers twitching with anticipation in his warm pockets, a stark contrast to the chilly wind on this fine spring evening.

He needed to be patient. Because patience was indeed, a virtue.

And Fyodor was a virtuous man. Perhaps not a good one, but he would gladly take the title of virtue.

Would you bestow upon him such a title? Would you do so, if you ever found out that he had taken such a keen interest in you? The rational part in his mind said no, of course not. Unlike him, you were blessed with normalcy. There was nothing extraordinary about you - no ability, no wealth, no status.

Nothing.

You could have been squished like a bug beneath his heel and the world would just keep on going as it always would. Sure, there would be some individuals who would miss you dearly but even they would move on at some point.

Such was the nature of humanity. How cruel, he thought to himself.

Fortunately for you, Fyodor was no ordinary man. Despite his predicament, he had grown fond of you. He was not sure why but after a while, he stopped asking such trifling questions as to why he troubled himself by giving you so much attention.

It was pointless to make sense of the senseless.

Right here, right now, all he wanted was to enjoy this quiet evening by his lonesome, as he tailed behind you like a creeping shadow. He would reveal himself to you properly when the time was right, when he felt you were strong enough to take him.

Fyodor just needed to wait a little bit longer, just long enough to see how he should proceed with you in case things went south.

In the meantime, he would gladly spend every waking moment simply watching you for his own personal pleasure.

🥀 TAGS: @yanroma, @oneoftheprettynerds, @misdollface, @sxy0ung, @rosemary108233, @c4xcocoa, @gettinshiggywithit, @ophticcus, @lakxcpsta, @ranposgirlboss, @robinaxolotl, @acornwinter, @enoojnij, @ishqani, @osachiyo, @bluepeanutharmony, @kaithegremlin, @fyodorscockslut, @wcayaw, @luna-mariko-akatsuki, @lovelyyz, @queenofspades403

APRIL 24TH - Story One is AI.

[fandomfloozy]

Bittersweet Nothings

Pairing: Durge x Gortash, reader x Gortash

C/W: gn reader, redeemed! durge, platonic/romantic soulmates, sfw

~°•*~

It's just a glass of wine, you'd told yourself. What's the harm? You'd naively asked.

Having the newly appointed Archduke of Baldur's Gate set up in your camp was unprecedented enough, but to agree to join him in his tent for a spell was hardly appropriate. Especially now that over half the bottle had disappeared in no time at all.

You were hardly to blame, to be fair. He had a certain air about him that had drawn you in from the beginning. A comfortable familiarity with you that left you equal parts confused and amused. He was charming, as is his way. Which is why when he'd asked you to share a drink with him, the only response you could scrounge up was a shrug and a "What the hell, why not?"

Which left you here. Sprawled out on an assortment of cushions and floor mats, a slight heat in your face that spread from your cheeks to your neck, cackling at whatever sad attempt at comedy has just left Gortash's mouth.

"You're positively primeval," you laugh as you playfully push at his shoulder, which is lightly adorned with just a black dress shirt. His overcoat lay forgotten in the corner somewhere, shed about two glasses ago.

"Oh, come now," he grins slyly in response, face leaning against his hand as he lay facing you. "You always liked that one."

You can tell in the way he says it and in the moment that follows that he knows not what he said or how it came across. The words flowed out of him without thought, as if by nature.

And you're no fool. You've scrounged up enough clues and hints of a past alliance. Words written in your own hand, and some in his, that tease at something even deeper than that. A friendship. A bond. Maybe something more, if you look real close, if you squint.

It's circumstancial at best. Letters can be fabricated, feelings can change. One page of a book tells only a fragment of a story. Yet it's moments like these, where his facade cracks and his defenses drop, that cement a truth in your mind: you meant something to him. Mean something to him. And a lifetime ago--a gruesome, gory, painful lifetime ago--he might have meant something to you.

And you don't remember it.

He's too engrossed in pouring his next glass to notice your shift in mood. You almost feel sober, idly circling the rim of your glass with a finger.

And yet the alcohol definitely plays a part in loosening your tongue. "You know, in our travels," you begin. His gaze shifts to you again. "My group and I, we've come across many an expert who have taken it upon themselves to inform me of just how..." You struggle to find the words, yet he hangs off each one in rapt attention. "Mutilated my mind truly is. In a very literal sense." You don't gauge his reaction. The ichor of the liquid in your glass seems far more fascinating right now.

This subject matter makes you feel shy and exposed, and yet his response is nonchalant. "Yes, well, it should come as no surprise how thorough Orin was in her brutality." You can hear the roll in his eyes.

The mention of her name leaves a foul taste in your mouth and a tightness in your chest. "I've no doubt she took great pleasure in her work," you retort, emulating the exasperation in his tone. Your feelings pertaining to Orin are complicated, and this wasn't really the direction you intended to steer the conversation.

There's a hand at your chin and suddenly your eyes are level with his. "Dear assassin, take comfort in the fact that you were always her better." His expression is fierce. A sense of sort of... pride emanates from him. "She lies in the very bed she made and you alone stand victorious, as is your right." There's a finality in the way he says it. He sounds so sure, as if it was written in stone. As if he'd known this would always be the outcome.

You realize his finger and thumb linger on your chin. The exaggerated sense of warmth is dizzying. You blame the wine.

You attempt to refocus, smile with an exhale. "While I appreciate the sentiment, that's not what I was getting at."

"Speak then." He adjusts his frame. The hand remains in place, save for a rogue thumb that travels upward, brushing your bottom lip. "What troubles you?"

He asks in a cavalier sort of way, but his eyes carry an earnest. I'd move mountains to ease your troubles. It makes you hesitate before you continue. "Well, because of the sorry state I'm in." He chuckles at that. "It's entirely possible that... no amount of magic or healing could ever restore my memories. Return me to I was--"

He scrunches his brow quizzically. "I'm sure some way exists. We are set to conquer an elder brain, after all--"

"If your Grace would allow me to finish my thought." The words spill out of you with a laugh. Playful yet frustrated. So frustrated, in fact, that you've grabbed the hand that was at your chin. It's still in your grasp as you huff out a puff of air at the unperturbed face of Enver Gortash.

Your display apparently gives him no pause. He only raises a brow in amusement. He allows his hand to remain in your grip as he brings the other to his grin. He mimes zipping his lips shut and bows his head as a gesture to continue. You have the floor.

You sigh. "Were it possible... By some miracle or great power, to restore my mind to what it once was..." You look down and fiddle with his fingertips as you try to organize your thoughts. He lets you. "I'm not even sure that's something I'd want?" It comes out as a question. Rhetorical in the sense that you have no answer and Gortash doesn't offer one, true to his promise to let you continue uninterrupted. So you do.

"I'm free of my father. I've no concept of what it was like to submit to him fully, and I don't think I want to." The you that you hear about sounds nothing like the you you know. The you that was willing to watch the world burn--willing to be its last inhabitant, its last sacrifice to your god, your very blood--isn't you anymore. Everything you've heard has led you to believe the person you were was disturbed, deranged, unhinged. Who was that person beyond the madness? Was there one? "That part of me feels better off lost... Lest I lose my current self to it."

When you meet Gortash's eyes again, they're still on you, expectantly. His lips are sealed, determined to a fault to allow you to finish--somehow aware in the first place that you aren't yet.

He waits.

The bastard.

You bite the inside of your cheek. You sit up to your knees, now holding that hand so fiercely in both of yours. "I'm so certain of this. But..." Your brow furrows. "When one decides to leave their past behind, there are tradeoffs. One truly leaves everything behind them. Other aspects of my old life are simply lost to me. I know not who raised me up, I know not whether I was sweet as a child, I know not whether some trace of who I am existed in the person I once was." You bring his hand up to your forehead and shut your eyes as you confess. "And I know not who you are, Enver Gortash."

You either still have the floor or he doesn't know what to say. Either way you keep going.

"While I've come to respect you, and somewhat even trust you, no part of my mind remembers you."

You look down at him and search his eyes in desperation. The amusement in his face has softened into something else you can't quite place. He looks up at you, not having torn his gaze away.

You don't remember him.

"And yet, dear tyrant." You've known something from the moment you first met. "Some part of my soul knows you..." You exhale a laugh without humor.

"And I don't know what to make of that."

~°•*~

[faux-ecrivain]

Mors non est finis

————————————————————- Translation; Death Isn’t the end ————————————————————-

CONTENT WARNING; Death, war, mentions of infidelity, mentions of blood and waking up in a coffin underground, and memory loss

(Name; Duke Ellis Vanguard; although he’s not actually in this part)

(Thirty Third Official Post)

———————————————————-

       ‘Dear Elaine,’ Is how the letter began, tears threatened to spill from your eyes, and it took all your willpower not to crumple the letter that your husband had so lovingly written. Why were you so mad? Some might ask, after all, this letter clearly showed that your husband held a lot of love for you, Right? Wrong! Firstly, your name was not Elaine, it was [Y/N]. Second of all, your husband never wrote to you with any such love. 

          Typically his letter were all business and war related, never once did he refer to you as Dear, or anything of the sort. You see, you and your husband (Duke Ellis) have been fighting together since the two of you were young adults. By that, I mean, you and him have been in the same war for many years. Each year brought your country a little closer to victory and throughout the many years of war (14 to be exact) your husband has never once written to you with love. 

        His letters were always about the war, battle tactics and how things were going on the eastern front. And you would respond in kind, albeit with a bit more passion, and talk of seeing him after the war (which he always seemed to disregard). Never once in his letters did he ever deviate from the topic of war. 

      Reluctantly you decided to continue reading this letter, maybe part of you hoped it was simply a letter to a friend, or a sibling, and not a letter to a lover. ‘Though it has been many weeks since we were last together, I still remember that day fondly. I recall how beautiful you looked under the moonlight, I recall the way your smile set fire to my soul and-‘ 

          You couldn’t bare to read anymore, your heart couldn’t take it. As your eyes filled with tears, you tore your gaze away from the letter, crumpled it up and tossed it somewhere in your tent. You collapsed in your chair and covered your face with your hands. Intense betrayal wracked your body as you desperately tried to come to terms with what you’ve learned. 

        You didn’t understand how he could do that to you, you had been the perfect spouse. At least you thought you were, after all, you had been kind, responsive, gentle (when you weren’t on the battlefield) and loving. You never belittled him, and you always had his back, never once have you been dishonest or unfaithful. 

        So, how could he do that to you? Weren’t you good enough? Didn’t he say that he would always stay true to you? I mean, that’s what he wrote in his vows, and you thought vows were never meant to be broken. Were you truly so naive? What were you going to do the next time you saw him? Should you pretend nothing happened or confront him? You didn’t know, and you didn’t have an opportunity to think about it either. Because, one of your soldiers had something important to report, and it required your utmost attention. 

       You wipe away any tears that fell, then you stand up and leave your tent. Your eyes roam across your camp until you find the man you’re looking for. You call out to him, your tone stern and your voice steady. “Charles! You said you have something to report?” He, as were others, was visibly startled by your sudden appearance, which lifted your mood somewhat. It was nice to know that your men still respected you, even if your husband didn’t. 

      Charles scampered towards you and gave you his report. “Our scouts say they saw enemy shoulders approaching from the west, and it was reported that the people in the northern front are having trouble standing their ground.” You exhale sharply, the sorrows of love almost forgotten as the consequences of war require your full attention. “Tsk, that means the western front has fallen, we’ll have to double the guards on the western border.” You respond, and Charles nods rapidly in agreement. Hence, you mobilize the troops and inform them of the situation, naturally they are intimated (war is frighteningly), but they do not shirk their duties, and they courageously defend the western front.

       Unfortunately you would never make it through the night, not because your troops failed, they tried their best, but because of an assassination attempt on your life. Your body was found with your throat slit and there was evidence of a struggle. It’s unknown how no one heard the struggle or why you were targeted, although most assumed it was because you were a formidable enemy. Regardless, a ceremony was held, and your family mourned (surprisingly, even your husband mourned, the little bastard). Little did they know, or anyone know, that you would not be so easily condemned.

       You woke within the darkness, confused and frightened, you scratched at the wood surrounding. This causes your nails to crack and your fingers to bleed. You panic, you’ve never done well in enclosed spaces, and kick at the lid of your coffin. It feels as though the walls are closing in on you, as though there were no escape. Your body aches, and your mind can’t quite comprehend the fact that you’re trapped. You struggle, you kick, you claw, and eventually, you’ve made it out of the coffin, and onto the surface.     

          Unfortunately, your filthy, degraded appearance causes the nearby nobles (and commoners) to scream, some even spray you with ‘holy’ water (to deter any evil spirits from bothering them). You’re briefly disturbed by the water, but it’s also refreshing, you were quite parched after all. Whilst several civilians were panicking about the undead awakening and taking over the world, you were simply trying to crawl out of your grave (which many nobles did not like and told their servants to stop you from doing that). 

          It was rather annoying, all their screaming and crying, what was especially annoying was how the servants continue to kick at you. Honestly, didn’t they have anything better to do? Your bones creaked as you got out of your grave and stretched your arms above your head. Your staggering stature caused quite a few to collapse in fear, yet you were unaware of this. Your eyes roved across the plot you were buried in, it was well taken care of, but lonely. 

        For some reason, you felt a simmering rage build up in your heart (which was apparently still beating). You couldn’t remember why you were upset or why you were buried. Nor could you remember how you died, regardless, you felt like someone important, and decided to ask some civilians for information.

————————————————————

(okay, so I wrote this while I was playing Sims 3. I just got hit with a bout of inspiration and had to write, so there you go, and hopefully you enjoy it!)

[cherrycola27]

false god

Series Warnings: Mythology!AU. Language, alcohol, drinking. Military inaccuracies. Mutual pining, unrequited love. Allusions to and full smut. Minors DNI. 18+. Individual chapter warnings will come as needed. Banner Credit @thedroneranger

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Chapter 18: Lose Control

The bed was cold without Bradley this morning. He'd left early to go to Maverick's workshop. The Bronco needed a few tune ups, and Maverick's shop had everything Bradley needed. He'd kissed you goodbye early this morning with a promise to be home by dinner. It had been a while since he'd been able to spend some time with his pseudo-father, and you encouraged him to have fun.

Resolving that you weren't going to get any more sleep, you rolled out of bed and stretched before meandering into the shower. Without Bradley in there with you, you felt the anxiety of being around water creeping in, causing you to spend less time in there than you would have liked.

You got out and dried yourself off before dragging your hand across the mirror to clear the steam.

You froze as you stared at your reflection.

There, looking back at you, was something you'd only see on other people. The neat row of numbers ticking away just above your head.

A lifetime counter.

How was this possible? You were a Goddess, never meant to die. But there, right above your brow, was the proof that you would. And what was worse is you didn't have much time. A few months. After doing the math, you realized your time would run out on your birthday. You'd barely get six months of marriage with Bradley.

You just didn't understand. It didn't make sense. But then you thought back to the cut from the mug at his aunts house. The soreness in your muscles. The fatigue you had. The bruises that seemed to come from nowhere that took ages to fade.

Something was wrong, and you needed answers.

You threw on some clothes and raced to your kitchen.

You grabbed a sprig of mint and quickly lit it. Moments later, Minthe appeared before you with worry written on her face.

"Hades." She breathed out as she took your hands. "I have horrible news, my lady."

"I'm dying." You say before she can speak again.

"How? How do you know?" Minthe asks. "I saw a lifetime counter above my head. I'm going to die on my birthday. But I don't understand. How is this possible? I thought I had one lifeline left." You say.

"Hecate and I weren't sure either. We were doing our regular check of the lifelines when we came across yours, and well—simply put, it's crumbling. It's very similar to when a mortal has a disease that kills them slowly rather than a fast snip of the line." Minthe explains to you.

"But I'm immune to mortal diseases." You insist. "Yes, we know that, which it was why we found it so strange. So we immediately consulted the Fates, and well—" Minthe sighs.

"What did they say?" You press her. "They said your lifeline is crumbling because you've spent too much time away from the Underworld and because—because you're married and tethered to a mortal." Minthe looks at you with sad eyes.

You swallow thickly. "So, if I go back to the Underworld, turn into my true form for a bit, that would help restore it?" You ask her.

"No!" She shouts at you. "Turning back into your true form takes so much of your strength. It would kill you!" She says. "The— for lack of a better term— best solution would be to ask Hera and Aphroditie to cut your tether with Bradley. That would give you enough time to complete your quest of worthiness."

"No." You state firmly. "I will not be doing that. Bradley is one of the few good things I have in my life. He is the first person to truly love me. He is my soulmates, and I will not cut our tether. If loving him means the end of my life, so be it." You tell Minthe.

"I understand, my lady. Hecate and I will see what we can do to help stop your line from crumbling. But for now, please he careful. I do not wish to see you back home unless you are sitting on your throne." Minthe says. She takes your hands and gives them a squeeze before hugging you and disappearing, leaving only the smell of mint behind.

The rest of the day, you wrestled your inner demons on whether or not you should tell Bradley. On one hand, he deserved to know. But on the other, him knowing that he was the reason you were dying, it would kill him. So, you decided not to tell him, at least not yet.

You'd give yourself a few weeks to figure it out.

.............

You could tell that someone was wrong the moment you and Bradley stepped onto base Monday morning. The air was charged with negativity.

You'd no sooner made it through the doors of the building before you were being pulled into a briefing room with Cyclone, Maverick, and Warlock.

"Gentleman," you began, "to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Commander Bradshaw," Cyclone cleared his throat, "we have credible intelligence that there is a cargo ship in the Pacific right now that is bringing a large amount of illegal weapons a bomb making materials to a nation that doesn't have our best interests at heart. It's currently being escorted by a foreign Naval aircraft carrier, which provides surveillance for it. We have been asked to take a small team out to destroy both the cargo ship and the carrier." He tells you.

"Admiral, when I came here, it was for a teaching position. I was brought here to train the next generation of aviators and to take the Daggers from good to the best. I did not come here to lead another death-wish mission." You say.

"Hades. We aren't asking you to lead the mission." Maverick chimes in. "Then what are you asking me?" You turn towards him.

"We are asking you how you would fly it. What would you do." Warlock tells you as he pulls up a graphic. You study the picture in go over the scenarios in your head.

"You're going to need five jets. Three singles and two doubles." You say after a long while. "Why?" Cyclone asks you.

A single and a double to drop a coordinated bomb strike on the cargo ship at the same time another pair strikes the aircraft carrier and then a single to provide back up in case you're spotted before taking them out and they launch their own airstrike." You reply.

They shake their heads, whispering amongst themselves.

"And of the Daggers, who would you pick to fly this?" Warlock asks you.

"Hangman, Coyote, Phoenix, Bob, Payback, and Fanboy. Rooster as mission leader." You tell them.

"And why Rooster for mission leader?" Cyclone asks you. "Because he listens. He cares. He looks out for the whole team." You tell them.

"Well then, who would fly as the spare?"

"Me. Obviously." You say without hesitation.

"Commander Bradshaw, I'm sure you're well aware of Navy regulations and why you can't do that." Cyclone sighs.

"Admiral, with all due respect, I don't give a fuck about the Navy regulations." You chuckle. Everyone's eyes go wide.

"With the information you've given me, there is no way that our planes aren't spotted before delivering the payload. The other carrier will have time to launch aircrafts. The Daggers are going to need a spare ready to launch and go straight into a dogfight or tactical position. Who else has more experience in that than me? Furthermore, there is not a pilot, living or dead, in the Navy that's better than me. I'm not sending my friends and my husband into a situation like this without the best possible backup." You state.

"Well, Hades. If you're the best pilot in the Navy, why are you not naming yourself as the mission leader?" Cyclone challenges you.

"For the same reason you never put your best batter first in the lineup, you need someone to clean up the mess everyone else makes." You lean back in your chair.

"Commander Bradshaw, while your reasoning is sound. I can not send you on a mission of this caliber with your husband. I'm already bending the rules by keeping you on the same squadron!" Cyclone tells you sternly.

"Then I guess you'll have to find another squadron to fly this mission, sir." You chuckle.

"Excuse me?" Cyclone grits out, surging forward in his chair.

"Admiral Simpson, as you know, I have thirteen confirmed kills and zero failed missions. Do you know what thirteen confirmed kills and no mission failures get you in the Navy?" You ask him as you cock you head to the side. The men across from you are silent, their eyes fixed on you.

"I'll tell you what it gets you. It gets you a lot of friends. Powerful friends who are grateful for your work and owe you a favor. And I won't hesitate to go to one of those friends who out ranks you cash in one of those favors. Face it, you need me and the Daggers to fly this mission because no one else is as good as we are. So, either you bend the rules even more, or we all walk away. Your choice, Simpy." You click your tongue before crossing your arms.

You can see the rage in Cyclone's eyes. He knows you're right. Everyone in the room knows you're right. Cyclone holds eye contact with you, waiting for you to break, to call your bluff. But you're a goddamm Goddess who has never bowed down to a mortal and you're not about to start now.

"Fine." Cyclone breathes out when he realizes you're not bluffing. "I thought you'd see it my way, Admiral. Now, when do we leave?" You ask the men in the room.

"Friday. We will tell the rest of the Daggers today. That means every moment from now until we ship out is spent training. Is that understood?" Admiral Bates says.

"Understood. Now, if there isn't nothing else, I'd like to be dismissed to regroup with the rest of my team." Bates nods his head once, and you get up and exit the room.

..............

The news of mission doesn't settle well with the Daggers. You can tell they feel under prepared and caught off guard. You sympathize with them. Being given a mission of this caliber on such short notice, it's scary.

The car ride home with Bradley is silent. Neither of you know what to say.

The rest of the week goes by in a blur.

Soon, you're standing in a parking lot holding your husband's hand as you watch the rest of the Daggers, and the crew say goodbye to their loved ones.

Reuben holds his wife close, and Bob kisses his wife while cradling his son in his arms. Mickey's mom and dad hug him while Nat and Javy say goodbye to both of their families. Jake's girlfriend Jasmine clings to him as he buries his face in her natural curls and kisses her head. Maverick and Penny whisper hushed and tearful goodbyes before breaking apart and boarding behind you and Bradley.

You wish you could go up to all of the families that your friends are leaving behind and tell them that they are all going to be okay. You've checked. You know. The only person who might not come back for this mission is you. You'll keep them safe. You vow that to yourself.

You've decided to still not tell Bradley about your impending death. He has enough on his plate. You know that you probably aren't supposed to, but the two of you share a bunk. And even though the bed inside it is barely big enough for Bradley, every night, you're crammed in there with him, practically on top of him, soaking in every moment the two of you have together.

The night before the misson, you and the rest of the Daggers gather in the mess hall. You eat and talk, and it's almost carefree. But you and everyone else no better than to let your guard down.

That night, in that shared, cramped bunk, Bradley makes love to you like it's the last time he will ever get to hold you, and you love him back just as hard and just as fierce and with every ounce of your soul.

It's the early hours of the morning when the two of you finish. You both know you should sleep, but neither of you can.

"Everyone is going to make it. Right?" Bradley asks you as the two of you lay naked in the dark. You turn on your side using his tattooed bicep as a pillow. He drapes your leg over his hip and begins to trace the lines and patterns of your tattoos that he knows so well. Including the rooster that now adorns your hip.

"Yes. I promise." You say trying to make eye contact with him. It's dark, but you can still see the lines of his face relax. "I wish we could tell them, tell their families." Bradley says. "I know, me too." You agree.

Bradley cups your chin and brings your lips to his, and kisses you tenderly. "Why'd you name me mission leader?" He asks you. You'd been waiting for that question. "Because you're the best person for the job. You'll take care of everyone." You tell him. He opens his mouth to speak, maybe to argue with you, but a yawn comes out instead.

You both agree that you should rest. You need to be sharp for tomorrow.

A few minutes later, Bradley is fast asleep. Soft snores fall from his lips. You lay there in the darkness, gently tracing over his features. His forehead, his nose, his cheeks, his lips, his scars. You're committing all of them to memory just in case. Your lifetime counter hasn't changed, but you can't shake the feeling in the pit of your stomach that this is the last time you'll hold Bradley in your arms.

..............

The salt air stings your face as you stand on the deck of the carrier with your helmet in your arms. The sea breeze whips the stray strands of hair that refuse to stay pulled back around your face.

You and the rest of the squad have gone over the plan and your planes more times than you can count.

You linger at the side of your jet, looking at your name, Cmdr. Y/N 'Hades' Bradshaw, in the thick, black, and blocky letters.

You hear a siren indicating that it's almost time. Everyone starts scrambling on deck. Bradley finds you and grabs you by the shoulders, forcing you to face him.

"We all come home." He says. "What?" You ask him, looking confused.

"We all come home." He emphasizes. You know exactly what he means when he says that. Bradley has your number. He knows that you wouldn't hesitate to sacrifice yourself for him or the others if it came down to it.

"Bradley—" You breathed out, but he cuts you off.

"No buts, Angel. We all come home. Six planes in, six planes out." He leaves no room for argument. "We are leaving this boat with eight souls. We are coming back with eight of them, too." Bradley says, as if speaking it into the universe will somehow make it true.

You check his counter. It's still got the same fifty years it had earlier today. You sigh and nod your head, trying to ignore the feeling in the pit of your stomach.

................

Sitting in your plane as you listened to what was happening in the mission was torture. So far, everything was going according to plan.

Overwatch hadn't picked up anything unusual, and the weather made flying smooth. Maybe you were wrong, and maybe you wouldn't even have to deploy, and everyone would land back on the carrier safely, and they would unload you out of the catapult and tonight you and Bradley would stay up having wild celebratory sex.

But the idea of all of that was soon banished from your mind as you heard Coyote call about a rouge strike team.

You lowered the canopy, ready to be launched at a moments notice.

Your heart thrummed in your chest, beating so loud it filled your ears to the point that you almost didn't hear Cyclone screaming for you to launch.

You did so quickly. Your F/A- 18 sliced through the air as you pushed the throttle forward on your way to rescue your team. You were a few minutes out, and you could hear them calling out moves and counter moves to help each other stay safe.

Hangman was out of out of flares, and you could hear Bradley saying that he was coming to cover him. The closer you got to the team, the more smoke and gunfire you could see.

You quickly lined up a shot before sending a missle through the plane of one of the bandits that was on Phoenix. She and Bob thanked you as you circled back around. You directed them to head back to the boat and for Coyote, Payback, and Fanboy to follow them. You would help Bradley and Jake. There was only one other plane and you knew you could take them.

Jake called out desperately that he was out of ammo and missiles, and Bradley was almost out of flares. Thankfully, you were able to force the pilot of the enemy plane near some cliffs of some tiny island that ran along the shores' edge.

It confused their navigation enough for you to take them out. Quickly, you, Bradley, and Jake all made your way back towards the safety of the carrier while breathing a sigh of relief.

Only, it was short-lived because moments later, another bandit was on Jake's tail.

Before you could do anything, Bradley swooped in to protect him, using the last of his flares to throw the missile attack of, giving Jake time to fly ahead to safety, leaving Bradley with the bandit on his tail.

You were out of missiles and down to a few rounds of ammo left, but them enemy was locked on and so close to Bradley that if you fired, you might risk taking out your husband. You didn't know what to do.

Then, before you could think of a plan, you hear Bradley cry out that the other pilot and missile lock on him, and he had no way to deflect it.

You told him to quickly get as much altitude as he could. Bradley listened and jetted back up towards the clouds, giving you a chance to fire at the other pilot.

But you weren't fast enough. The enemy pilot was able to fire a final shot before plummeting into the water below. The shot was just close enough to clip the tail of Bradley's plane causing him to lose control.

You screamed for him to eject, panic setting in because you couldn't see his lifetime counter. You had no clue if this was the end for him. All you could think about was how it wasn't supposed to be this way. It wasn't supposed to end like this.

Thankfully, you heard Bradley eject and saw him burst from his cockpit before seeing the bright orange of his chute open.

But as he fell, you realized he was falling too fast. His parachute was tangled. If you didn't do something, he would surely crash into the sea below and die.

So, you ignored the warning that Minthe gave you because you knew what you had to do. You didn't think. You acted as you let the fire of your true goddess form burn through your veins one final time.

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[the-curious-butterfly]

A Dappling (or was it called Appling?) short.

PLOT TWIST

After word got out that it was her instead of Daring who woke up Apple, Darling half expected to be chased out of Ever After with torches and pitch forks.

Perhaps not exactly to that extreme but at least something to that extent. She expected mad looks, curses (both literal and verbal) being thrown her way, and an angry mob of princes she could definitely beat in a fight if they lined up one by one. If they came at her all at once, however, it could prove just a tad bit more difficult but she’s pretty sure she can still win against that too.

But she digresses, the point is she expected things to get very bad and very awkward. Well they got awkward alright but not in the very bad way, though she couldn’t really call it the good way either. More like they got awkward in the “okay, I guess this is happening” sort of way.

No, once word had reached a certain person in particular that she, a princess no less, woke Apple from her cursed slumber it took no time at all for her to find herself in the office of one Snow White. The mother of said previously cursed princess and also the Queen of Ever After. And by no time at all she meant no time at all, she doesn’t even remember how she got here or when this semi-large packet came to be in her hands.

Darling decided to ignore the concerning implications that thought had and instead looked down to find in big bold fancy red letters the words: ‘So You Want to Marry My Sweet Apple Dumpling do You?’

There was another phrase underneath with the word ‘Daring’ in it but it had been hastily crossed out so Darling couldn’t exactly read it.

‘Wait….marry?!’

“Ummm, your majesty, what is this?”

The Queen places down her mug with the words ‘fairest of them all’ onto her desk before finally addressing Darling.

“Darling please, call me Snow. We are soon to be family after all.”

“Right…Snow.” It felt so weird to call her by her first name. Not just because she was the Queen but also because Darling was a knight and thus was more use to addressing others the way a knight would, with formality and respect. “What do you mean by soon to be?”

“What do you mean by what do I mean? Will you or will you not be proposing to Apple?” The Queen narrowed her eyes at Darling as if telling her to think carefully about her answer.

“Your majest- I mean Snow, I would love to propose to Apple some day it’s just that you know I thought that you, hex that the entire realm would be upset I wasn’t Daring. Plus we’re both still in school and all.”

“Nonsense, Darling, all Apple’s destiny truly calls for is a Charming, and from what I hear you certainly live up to your namesake. Besides, I’ll have you know the first Snow White was married before she even started school.” (I’m so sorry, I hated learning this but the original Snow White apparently was somewhere around 14 and I completely understand if you want to beat me up for bringing it to your attention.)

“I’m not so sure if that’s something to be proud of, your majesty.” The words were out before Darling could even remind herself who she was saying them to.

“Oh I completely agree, that was the one part of my story I thought was utterly ridiculous.” Phew “Which is why I waited until senior year.”

“Wait, you were also poisoned while attending Ever After High?”

“Darling, I’ll let you in on a secret, most stories end up happening at Ever After High. Hex, as soon as the Evil Queen saw me she tried to poison me. Every day was a fight for my life, those were the best four years I could have ever after wished for.”

“…oh….kay” was all Darling could really think to say.

“Now if you will, turn to page seven.”

“Page seven?” Snow gestured to the packet Darling had forgotten was in her hands. “Oh hex, forgive me I-“ she went completely dead silent as soon as she saw the first few words the page contained.

Heirs and You

“Now granted, this was written with Daring in mind so I never thought I needed to add this which is why I’m saying it now. I don’t mind adoption but your first child must be a product of both you and Apple thus I took the liberty of getting in contact with a renown enchantress who I am certain will be able to help you and…Darling?!”

A loud thud reverberated throughout the room as the knight had passed out before Snow could even finish saying her name.

~~~

Apple come quick, your mother is traumatizing your Prince Charming.

[ladykailitha]

Can Anybody See Me? Part 17

Fuck, guys, I don’t even know what this story is even doing at this point. I’m on part 18 and it does NOT want to wrap up. Like at all. It wants to go on forever and I don’t know how to stop it. It MIGHT be 20 parts. It might be 50 at this point. Who the hell knows? Not this poor belabored author that’s for sure.

Anyway...so this part is a little on the sad side. We get more of Eddie’s backstory. And a little bit of bitchy Steve to lighten it up at the end.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16

*

It wasn’t until Steve was getting ready for school the next morning that he found he had left the comic at Eddie’s.

He was throwing homework in his bag when he realized it felt lighter than it should.

He unpacked it slowly and set everything out on his bed. He stood there looking at his stuff, hands on his hips for a moment before it dawned on him.

Shit.

The comic book. After he had finished all the pages he had painstakingly put them together in comic book form. He even designed the cover. Then took them to copying store and got it bound like a real comic book.

The kid at the shop was impressed with how well the pages were mapped out.

But it wasn’t in his stuff he had pulled from his bag. Which meant one thing. Eddie had it.

It was fine. No need to panic. He had written for Eddie. He was meant to read it.

So why was he freaking out?

Oh, only because Steve didn’t want him to read it until after the school play. Hell Steve’s nerves were already shot with the three additional performances Steve wasn’t planning on having to do. But adding Eddie knowing about the Upside Down? It made him vaguely ill.

Fuck what if he did throw up from nerves? He’d never done it before, but then again, he’d never performed in front other people before either. He was a literal mess.

He packed away all his things carefully and prayed to whatever supreme being that was out there for a merciful death on his way to school.

*

Eddie had stayed up the whole night reading Steve’s comic. Personally, he thought that the story was good, the characters were interesting and the monsters were frightening enough.

It wasn’t until he got the final page of the comic where Steve’s afterword was.

Unlike the rest of it where it was professionally done, the last page had a carefully glued on piece of paper. So this was clearly something that Steve didn’t want other people to see.

And Eddie would have respected that if it hadn’t been addressed to him directly.

“Eddie-

So there you have it. The start of my trauma. And yes this is only the start. The real story began with a missing boy and a cover up so large it frightens me. But that was never my story to tell. This is my story. This is where it truly began for me.

Well. That’s not quite true. It started with a girl and a swimming pool. A tragedy that should have been mine. But that night I was so intent on getting laid that I let it happen. Barb deserved better than me. She should have lived and I died.

I don’t know why I lived. Maybe it was because I was needed to protect those closest to me. That’s all I thought I was good for. Dying in a blaze of glory protecting those I hold most dear. And then I met you.

God, Eddie, you make me want to live. For the first time in my miserable existence I found people who like me for me. And not just because I was needed. To protect. To defend. To die. For them.

And then you came along and protected me. Defended me. I don’t think anyone has ever done that for me before.

Just do me one favor. Peel out this insert. Throw it away. Burn it. I don’t care. Just as long as you are the only one that sees it. I don’t want you in danger. But I needed you know this side of me.

The boy with the bat. The boy who never knew what love really was until he met you.

-Love Steve”

Eddie choked back tears and place a hand to his trembling lips. If Steve had really gone through all that. If even a fraction of it was true. Even if none of it was. That was still the most beautiful love letter he had ever seen. And it was addressed to him.

Shit.

Tears rolled down his face as he read the letter again and again. After the seventh or eighth read he finally did what Steve requested and peeled the letter out of the last page of the comic. He folded it carefully and crawled under his bed.

Buried underneath of the mess was a simple black lockbox. He set it gently on his bed and then went to his dresser. He slid out the bottom drawer and jiggled the bottom until a small key fell out onto the floor.

He picked the key up and sat on his bed. He unlocked the box and placed the key between his lips for safe keeping.

Inside the box were all the things Eddie didn’t want other people to see. The couple of birthday cards his dad had sent him from prison. His mom’s suicide note.

Not even Wayne had seen that one. No one knew but Eddie that she had taken her own life. He had seen her life insurance policy and knew it wouldn’t pay out if they thought it was intentional. So accidental overdose was what was on her death certificate.

Eddie had been her sole beneficiary and it was placed in trust until he turned twenty-one. He was going to use it fund the band and get the hell out of Hawkins. He just had to make that far.

The paperwork for the trust was in there too. Wayne had offered to hold on to it for him but at the time Eddie didn’t trust anyone and giving that up felt like too much.

His birth certificate was in here too. Well a copy of it anyway. Wayne had the original, but Eddie liked knowing he had a copy too. In case he needed to get away fast.

Also in here was a portion of the money he had made from dealing drugs. He told Reefer Rick, no meth and no cocaine. Mainly weed and mushrooms, with a small smattering of the harder drugs. He had set aside ten percent of his earnings as an emergency fund. In case he needed it.

The last thing that was in there was a picture of his mom. She’s sitting on the swings next to Eddie and smiling into the camera as Eddie laughs gleefully. Just out of frame was his dad who had been pushing him on the swing. It was the last moment of happiness Eddie had before Lawrence Munson got into selling and doing drugs. Had got his wife, Edie addicted. Before Larry had got himself arrested in Texas and Eddie was sent to go live with Wayne.

He placed the love letter on top and closed the box. He locked it back up and set everything to rights. He looked at the alarm clock and groaned when the bright red numbers glared back him. It was 4:57am.

Fuck.

Eddie was supposed to be up in an hour for school. Yeah. That wasn’t happening today. He flopped on the bed and threw his arms out. He thought about the comic and what was inside it. He remembered Steve telling him that he had changed it so unless you were there that day you wouldn’t recognize the events. But even with that it felt...well, it felt like he was being let in on secret if he was honest. A big one.

He looked over at the clock again and it was almost six. He sighed and got up. He grabbed the stuff he needed for his shower and ducked into the bathroom. The last thing he needed this morning was Wayne seeing him still in the clothes he wore the night before.

He showered quickly and got out before Wayne had even turned on the coffee pot. He was dressed and ready for school before the pot had finished brewing.

Wayne handed him a cup of coffee and raised an eyebrow at him.

“What do you want, old man?” Eddie groused. He wasn’t in the mood for small talk considering he was running on fumes.

“You were up all night reading that comic, weren’t you?” Wayne said and took a long sip of his coffee.

Eddie sighed. He should have known better than to think that Wayne wouldn’t catch him at it. After all this was the man who had been catching him reading books at three o’clock in the morning since he was twelve.

“It’s Steve’s.”

“I didn’t know he read comic books,” Wayne said almost an echo of what he said the night before.

“As in he wrote and drew it,” Eddie clarified.

Wayne’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s a pretty talented boy you got there, Eddie.”

Eddie blushed. “I know. This was the story he was originally going to tell for his art class. Seniors in ART 4 had to do an eight page comic book for their winter finale. Steve started doing this one, but the teacher flipped out and threatened to call his parents because it was ‘too scary’ or some other dumb shit.”

“So he completed it anyway and turned in something else?” Wayne supposed.

Eddie nodded. “He told me he was going to finish it so that I could read it.”

Wayne hummed. “Do you think he left it here on purpose? So that you would read it without having to physically hand it to you?”

Eddie tilted his head and looked up thoughtfully. He shook his head. “I don’t think so. I think Steve would have wanted to explain it to me.” He hung his head. “I shouldn’t have read it without that permission, but you know me.”

“I don’t think I would have been able to resist reading something that was meant for me either,” Wayne said, nodding.

Eddie drank the rest of his coffee and kissed his uncle on the cheek. “I’ll see you after school.”

“Bring that boy yours with you,” Wayne said. “I’m making my lasagna tonight, and I want him over for dinner.”

Eddie grinned. “You got it, old man.”

He was out the door and driving off before Wayne could even shake his head. Wayne loved that boy and if he was really lucky he would get another sweet boy out of this deal.

*

Steve was standing nervously at the door to the math hall because it was closest to the parking lot, chewing on his thumb nail. He knew he shouldn’t chew on his nails, but his nerves were shot to hell.

But the bell rang and there was still no sign of Eddie. So after a moment or so of indecision Steve gave up and went to class.

He spent this first class of the day fidgeting with his pencil, tapping against whatever surface was in reach. The desk, his book, his lips, his hand.

Finally the teacher had enough.

“Mr Harrington!” she barked.

Steve looked up at her in shock. “Yes, Miss Davis?”

“Do you have some hot date tonight that you’re nervous about or something?” she asked, folding her arms over her chest as she stared him down.

Steve looked at her blankly.

“Your pencil, Mr Harrington,” she explained tersely.

He looked down at the pencil. “No, Miss Davis. I didn’t even realize I was doing it. I’ll stop.”

Miss Davis pursed her lips. “See that you do.”

Steve tried finding less obvious ways to work through his nerves and then it hit him. He pulled out his drawing pad and began to doodle.

“Mr Harrington,” Miss Davis called out again some time later. “Would you please pay attention in my class?”

Steve blinked up at her. “You were talking about the Spanish forced colonization of South America, weren’t you?”

A couple of the kids in the class giggled.

Miss Davis turned red from the embarrassment. “Carry on.”

Steve gave her his lop-sided goofy grin.

Part 18  Part 19  Part 20  Part 21

Tag List: @shrimply-a-menace @strangersteddierthings @throwbackthrowaway @novelnovella @cursedfoxteeth @babyblender @garden-of-gay @anaibis @lifeisnotsobadonceyoustopcaring @swimmingbirdrunningrock @steve-the-hairrington @winterbuckwild @spectrum-spectre @matchingbatbites   @thing-a-ling @fandemonium-takes-its-toll @artiststarme @sundead  @nelotegreitic @gregre369 @butterflysandpeppermint @thedragonsaunt @kodaik97 @messrs-weasley @scarletzgo @deadlydodos @renaissan-vvitch @evix-syne666 @emly03 @justforthedead89 @ashwinmeird @huniibee @phantypurple @stevesbipanic @shucks-yuckyuck @lovelyscot @awkwardgravity1 @bookbinderbitch @reportinglivefromsoda @jinxjinn @chasinggeese @be-the-spark-bitch @kohlraedirectioner @cr0w-culture @xjessicafaithx @whimsicalwitchm @jaywhohasthegay @estrellami-1 @dangdirtydemons @howincrediblysapphicofyou @the-redthread 

[primelight]

Erdtree forgive me for what I'm about to do (WNM mini fic, that's not the title but sorry not sorry)

SO as some of you may be aware of, I've written...rather far ahead in 'Who Needs Maidens.'

In light of RECENT TRAILER DEVELOPMENTS my creative brain is going rabid, and to temporarily sate it I'm going to post a mini part of one of those thingies here. I might toss it out. It's rough. I might not pull the proverbial trigger, which is why it's going nowhere near AO3. It...kinda works as a standalone fic, though.

WARNING: Dubious consent (not super graphic), WEIRD imagery, Miquella's dilemma about being an ancient eldritch being stuck in, first, a child's body, and then whatever Mohg turned him into. Basically he's a dream-walking adult/demigod/eldrich abomination.

And, uh, spoilers.

Working Title: To Burn Alone, Once Again

Miquella’s body was cursed with delicacy, with beautiful, sterile youth. His life was but a moment, frozen in time. But Miquella’s mind grew old. In his dreams, he was free. His abundance was unrestrained. 

Trina was a useful mask. Beautiful, like him, mysterious and wise. He shrouded himself in mist, and traveled in shadows. He lived through others, gathering memories like flowers, slipping through the shadows of their dreams. 

But sometimes, when power flowed through him, and a dream was so strong that he could touch it, Miquella would cast Trina aside, and dare to reach for the raw blood and emotion burning in the world. He took up the sword with hands as large and dextrous as his father’s. He crossed the rolling hills of Altus in the dreams of soldiers, and waded through the despair of Tarnished Hunters in Limgrave. He donned grand, red-and-black vestments plucked from his half-brother’s mind. He loaded his body down with rusted iron armor, and stuffed linen into his boots to cushion the blisters on his heels. 

He tasted faint, alluring memories of ale and greasy, tavern-fried duck. He caught the scent of blood and shit on the Caelid battlegrounds, but also of hot honey-tea and warm bread. He felt – 

Miquella did not dare draw close enough to truly feel. He risked discovery, reprisal, and then retaliation from forces beyond his control. 

And guilt. To experience the terror and thrill and pain of battle alongside a dreamer was to touch the softest, most vulnerable parts of them. More joyful memories were worse, for Miquella longed to sink deeper.

He told himself that he simply wanted to share such things with the dreamer. But when it grew cold and dark in his cage, and when the days before and after, before and after, before and after the burning of the Erdtree stretched on for too long, Miquella knew the truth. He wanted those precious moments for himself. He wanted everything.

Miquella embodied Abundance, after all. He was meant to sow his seed, to reach out to the very corners of the Lands Between, and to fill the cosmos itself. If not for the curse, his legs would be long, his shoulders would be broad, and he could join his other half in battle.

You will always be my blade, Miquella thought, because he knew that Malenia would not have it otherwise. So I will be your shield. 

Waiting was hard. Miquella soothed himself with his own dreams, his own plans, and watched, unable to do more than suggest, to hint, occasionally prod a sleeping mind in the right direction. He got better at it each time the Erdtree burned. 

He could not truly interfere. Yet he could not turn away from the Volcano Manor, not when he realized what had happened. 

What should not have happened, not with — 

Miquella cursed Mohg with every fiber of his ancient soul.

…and Bernahl dreamed. 

Keira crossed the room once more. He relived the moment when she realized that he was watching every move she made. And then, again, when her laces loosened, and his gaze snared on the dip between her collarbones, and then slid lower as her shaking fingers twisted in her tunic, unknowingly teasing him. And in hindsight…oh, if he’d known, he’d have taken more time to draw the moment out. 

But it continued. A rush of anger, then the crush of his mouth to hers. Blushing, stammering, and then heavy breaths and soft moans.

Their clothing lay in a heap on the rug as he coaxed her with his hands and words. But too quickly, the searing heat of her had him gasping in his sleep.

His dream pulsed and lingered, stretched and indulged. Bernahl’s hands squeezed and soothed in turn. He was still tangled up in her warmth and scent, more than enough to inspire him once again. 

The dream urged him on, demanding that he look closer, squeeze tighter, fuck harder, for it could almost see, and surely then, it would almost feel… 

…Not enough. 

Miquella moved on, and dreamed of another life.

…Malenia’s Cleanrot Knights imprisoned Mohg at the first hint of his betrayal. Only the Haligtree’s treaty with Leyndell spared the Omen demigod. Rumor had it that Morgott the Grace Given had set a quiet, isolated cavern aside for Mohg, and left him to his blood sorcery and cruel prayers.

Instead, Miquella emerged tall and strong from the Haligtree roots, wings trailing behind him like a gossamer veil. Malenia had been waiting for him, wounded and still twisting in Rot, but overflowing with joy. Miquella held her close, excessively careful of his newfound strength. The top of his twin’s head rested just below his chin. They were a matched set, at last.

Together, Malenia and Miquella conquered the Rot, brought it to heel like a rabid dog, and spat in the face of its foul god. The Haligtree remained hollow, as he no longer had need of it, but Elphael grew nonetheless. Albinaurics, Misbegotton, and Tarnished alike flocked to the Haligtree alongside the Grace-blessed humans of the Lands Between. Miquella’s power grew with every life he took under his wing. 

Miquella dreamed that Keira found her way there as well, and offered her help, first to his knights, then to his builders, and finally to the gardens growing from the roots. She kept her sword at hand, but she claimed a greenhouse for herself, and used half-forgotten knowledge to help her fellow travelers. Soon, many of Miquella’s devotees would come to her for instruction, and her scarred hands would fill Elphael with green and gold. 

Perhaps he would hear tales of the strange Tarnished who could make the most stubborn plants grow. Perhaps her teachings would spread to his inner circle, or the fruit of her labors to his table. 

Perhaps he would decide to thank her himself. 

Miquella would come upon her by a carefully arranged accident, his wings hidden under a simple robe, and appearing as simply a very tall, very comely man. He’d find her hard at work in her garden, clad as lightly as decency would allow, spots of earth dusting her face and blackening her hands, her skin gleaming with sweat.

Perhaps he would sit beside her, heedless of his attire, charmed by her passion for her work. Perhaps his heart would ache when he saw how she missed her First Tree, but then nearly burst from his chest when she offered him half of her lunch.

She’d work out who he was, of course, perhaps on their second meeting, if his eyes gleamed too bright, or if she saw his wings. 

Would Keira be frightened? Excited? Mortified? Flattered?

Miquella rather liked the thought of all of them, depending on his mood.

Regardless of her reaction, he would give her some time to think. A day or so later, he would find her again. He would curl over her, cup her face in his hands, and make his intentions clear. 

No-one would dare watch if he lay with her among the lilies. Not that Miquella would care. They could stay there as long as he wanted, wrapped up in his opalescent wings, their bodies lit by the soft glow of unalloyed gold.

A lovely dream. Perhaps he was a romantic at heart.

…

…Or upon establishing his rule, Miquella could simply summon Keira to his chambers. The God of Abundance and Lord of the Haligtree would, naturally, want to personally interview a Tarnished with such an unusual passion for growing things.

His attendants would bathe her in steaming water infused with sacred oil, and cleanse her with soap formed from Trina’s lilies, known for relaxing the mind and softening the skin and hair. Her woes would be smoothed away, fragrant oils massaged into her skin until it glowed with health and softness, and her hair combed until it shone, and left to flow down her back in dark waves. 

Her face needed no paint, no adornment, and after Bernahl Miquella barely had the patience to hide her body in the lightest of moth-silk.

But for the dream, he would, if only to draw it out. 

Keira would be nervous, though she would hide it well, wouldn’t she? Bernahl hadn’t realized that she had never had a man until he’d been knuckle deep inside her. She would likely be considering whether or not to lie about her lack of experience, as only a complete imbecile would mistake his intentions.

Would she lie? Miquella would, of course, take her at her word, for what Tarnished would lie to their god? Then he could allow himself a little bit of greed, could press his suit quickly, roughly…and surely she would open for him so easily that any pain would simply heighten her pleasure. 

And despite her clear anxiety, Bernhal had made her so very wet…

She’ll be wetter for me, Miquella thought, in the garden or in my bed. He groaned at the surge of sense-memory, and curled long, powerful fingers in thick, dark hair. He tugged, and the sharp cry he received in return cut a line of fire down his spine.

Honeyed seduction melted into a frenzied claiming. Silk thread spun and writhed about Miquella’s bed as he pinned Keira beneath him, his smile as beautiful and terrifying as a blade. He smelled blood on her hands, and smoke in her hair. Erdtree smoke, from the dozens of times it had burned, each time bringing him one step closer to freedom — his little champion —

Miquella grasped for the pieces of sensation he’d cobbled together from thousands of dreams. Here, he tasted the power, the strength he craved. Every atom of his divine flesh pulsed with health. His curse was a memory, a vague, unpleasant dream as he cupped Keira’s face in hands that could crush her skull like an egg, and promised to be gentle. 

A lie. This way of love was not soft, and would never be safe. 

Miquella dreamed on, enfolding himself in borrowed sensation. He bid her cling to his shoulders and hips, and as it was his dream, she dug deep, and cried for him.

She wept until her eyes ran red, pleaded until she grew hoarse. She told him that next time would be the very last, that he would be free. He would ascend. She begged him to stay with her, to speak to her, to take her with him, anything – please —

…It was just a dream, so Miquella simply told her yes, and yes again, and took her.

Keira cried out, and he knew from the wet, lewd sound of their bodies that he barely fit inside her. And it would likely be worse — better, he needed more — in reality, considering what Mohg had made of him.

“You’ll forget him,” Miquella whispered.

Keira buried her face in his shoulder and sobbed.

[thegrapeandthefig]

What brought you to focus on Thasos?

It really took this question to realize I never addressed this, even though I thought I did. In short, it all came down to one inscription found on the island.

The inscription itself has long been considered “unpublished”, which in this case meant it had been translated once, in French, in the 1960s, by the archaeologists and historians who were working on excavating Thasos at the time. In the 90s, Swiss historian Anne-Francoise Jaccottet wrote a thesis on Dionysiac associations in the Greco-Roman world, and that’s where I found it first. Getting my hands on the thesis alone was a strike of luck, since when I began looking for it (because I saw it often cited in papers I’d read) it was only available on command from the university for a price in the 100s of euros. Until, in 2020, the author herself put the whole thing on academia.edu for free. Happenstance and all that.

Anyway, the reason why this particular inscription caught my attention out of the whole corpus of documents in the thesis was that it described vividly something linked to a UPG I had months prior. At the time I took note of the inscription as something to come back to later because I wasn’t sure what to do with the info. Confirmation was nice, but truly had no idea what to do with it.

A year or so later, I noticed that the same author had written and - again - put online for free, an article from 2018 on that specific inscription in collaboration with Stephanie Wyler (whose line of work tends to revolve around Dionysus in the roman context) and on the same element that resonated with my UPG. That is, the idea of a canopy of greenery/vines as an important ephemeral setup for worship, which is something that we can also catch glimpses of in literature:

“The flame, dividing, dimly outlines a cave for Dionysus more charming than any in Assyria and Lydia; for sprays of ivy grow luxuriantly about it and clusters of ivy berries and now grape-vines and stalks of thyrsus which spring up from the willing earth, so that some grow in the very fire.” - Philostratus the Elder, Imagines 1.13 (or 1.14 on theoi.com), 3rd century AD

The Thasian inscription, however, dates back from the 1st century AD and is a private dedication of a sanctuary to Dionysus from a man named Timokleides. He is described as being a doctor from Thasos and as being at the head of the dionysiac association (thiasos) that would be using this sanctuary. I could do a whole post about this alone, but the point is that it’s from there that I got the hutch to look at where the inscription came from in the first place.

That research led me to the realization that it was a very documented island, in big part because it has been excavated for decades but also because the ancient city/island used to be renowned for its wine, its marble and its gold, thanks to nearby mines on the Thracian coast. It led me to see that the calendar was in a workable state, that we had a decent list of attested festival and a very fair number of smaller sacrifial rules and miscellaneous inscriptions.

Another, more personal, reason why Thasos was a good fit was the geographical proximity with Lampsakos, Thrace and Moesia Inferior where I have (limited) elements concerning the presence of Priapus. Thasos is also known for having important examples of thysia, that is sacrifices for heroes in which the sacrifices were eaten by the worshippers, which goes against what is typically described as the norm in ancient Greek religion on a larger scale, but which also line up more closely with my personal experience.

All of these factors combined made Thasos a particularly good match for me. It felt a lot like finally putting together mismatched pieces of information into something that made sense.

[alovelyburn]

Saw some of your Berserk meta and really like it - wondered if you had already written about or had any thoughts about this: Do you think Miura regrets the Eclipse, and Femto? Not giving Griffith power, but the lengths he had to bend the story - basically break it - to undo the drastic abuse he put Griffith through after Guts left the Band of the Hawk? The reason I get this vibe is that we don't actually see a whole lot of Femto after a certain time, but we see a HELL of a lot of Griffith - healed, healthy, powerful Griffith. I always kind of got the vibe that he felt like he had written himself into a corner after Guts left and Griffith crashed and burned - and he needed a way to fix that and get the story back on track. While I'm sure that something like the Eclipse was a key event in his plan... it felt to me like Miura took some steps to walk it back during his lifetime, and shifted NeoGriffith's focus on mostly being that 'angel' and half Moonlight Boy and all... because as Femto is, there's no way for human Guts to really effectively counter him, and that kind of punches a big hole in the story's logic.

Hello hello, thanks much for the compliment! So this is a bit of a yes and no.

Yes - There is reason to believe Miura may have regretted at least some of what went on in the Eclipse, but not for the reason you're suggesting.

Basically, he said that when he looks back at it he found it disturbing and was distressed at his own abnormality. He also said he couldn't do it again.

And Mori had mentioned that the reason the Eclipse went so hard and got so extreme was because he (Mori) had told Miura that only something extreme that truly destroyed Guts's life would really work to make the guy from the Golden Age turn into the guy from the Black Swordsman arc. But after he did it, Miura called Mori a bit upset and it kind of depressed them both.

It's also been noted that despite the sheer length and prominence of the rape scene with Femto, that is actually very rarely referenced in the series afterward - a bit at first, like when Guts has his flashback in Godo's cave, but as time goes on it seems like most of the weight of Casca's trauma is relocated to the mass sexual assault by Apostles - that's what she flashes back to when she remembers the Eclipse almost every time.

So yeah, he may have regretted at least some parts of the Eclipse, although I would argue that the Eclipse conceptually was obviously present since near the beginning - thus the brand, but more importantly, thus the Slug Count's backstory in the BSM arc.

But, do I think it's because Miura had written himself into a corner and was trying to get back on track? Not really.

I mean we have to understand that the whole point of the Golden Age, per Miura, is to give the reader insight into why Guts is so upset at Griffith. In that sense, everything in the Golden Age is leading up to the Eclipse and the birth of Femto, which is all we go into the Golden Age knowing for sure is going to happen. Guts's departure, the torture and the breaking of Griffith, none of that is stuff he spontaneously did and then had to figure a way out of, that's stuff that was done specifically in order to create a situation wherein the Eclipse would be narratively justified.

In other words, it's not that he had to break the story to get out of a situation, it's that he broke the status quo of the story in order to trigger that very situation. Griffith was always intended to become Femto - he even shows up as Femto before he shows up as Griffith.

One of the things Miura mentions in the interview at the back of the Berserk guidebook is that originally Femto was meant to be Guts's enemy in his, well, Femto form but he found that Griffith stood out too much as a character during the Golden Age to let go of, and so he decided to bring his original appearance back. He then noted that the other thing is that if he were acting as Femto he would be back in the Astral Plane. So basically, the reason we see Griffith as he is rather than as Femto is a combination of Miura just liking Griffith's human self/design and wanting to bring it back in some form, and the worldbuilding having evolved in such a way that a full-Godhand isn't normally walking around the world in their purest form.

That said, there isn't that much of a difference between NeoGriffith and Femto. You can make an argument (and I do routinely) that NeoGriffith is a different aspect of Griffith's personality/persona than Femto (Hawk of Light vs Hawk of Darkness) but their powers aren't any different as far as we can tell - Griffith dominates apostles on sight. He can still brainwash people with his Od. He can still casually knock the walls off a mobile palace without moving. He's still impossible to hit with a weapon. Being in his presence alone still puts Schierke in danger of losing her astral form due to his overwhelming strength. A lot of what Griffith does in his NeoGriffith form - the army building, the having people fight beside him instead of just going in and curbstomping the monsters on his own, is just pretense of humanity stuff that seems designed to prevent people from feeling like they're being herded by some overwhelming inhuman force. He acts like he needs help because he wants them to feel needed and helpful not because he actually does need help.

Basically, if Guts can't counter Femto he can't counter Neo-Griffith either, which we see when he completely fails to land a single blow even though Griffith is just standing there naked, looking at him. That only hurts the story logic if the assumption is that Guts is meant to be able to counter Griffith effectively and I would argue that he is not.

Guts is, for all his strength and determination, ultimately a human being trying to fight what amounts to a demon god/archangel. While he can hold his own against apostles (and overpower some of them), Griffith brings Apostles to their knees just by showing up.

He even has Skull Knight/Gaiseric still tilting windmills at Void after 1,000 years to make the point that there's no conceivable way that a human can realistically take down a Godhand. There's no reason this battle should seem anything other than completely impossible.

[tiredstressedemotionalmess]

pleaseee talk abt Frankenstein I'd love to hear what u have to say!! 🥰🥰

JUST REMEMBERED IVE HAD THIS ASK SITTING IN MY INBOX FOR A BIT I WAS SAVING IT FOR A RAINY DAY WHEN I NEEDED AN EXCUSE TO LET THE THOUGHTS OUT OHHHHH OKAY

so i saw a post on here a long fucking time ago essentially saying "stop saying something defies nature when you really mean it defies god" and for some reason i have not been able to stop thinking abt it lately bc like. okay.

when we read Frankenstein in class a few months ago, my teacher asked us the question after we'd finished the book: "should victor have created the monster?" and the general consensus was "no, because he was defying nature and creating an abomination- it was a mistake on his part, an act of ignorance and hubris." and like. even then i was of the opinion that victor shouldnt have made the creature, but that doesnt mean the creature shouldnt have been made, yknow? just that victor should not have been the one to do it because he was incapable of taking responsibility of it

and now i just cant stop thinking about the almost cycle of like. what nature says and how this plays into its creation because heres the thing. it was possible. if something truly defied the natural order, it wouldnt be possible right?? change is nature- evolution and progress is nature. the fact that it was possible for the creature to be made means its within the realm of nature right? like there was no magic involved, nothing supernatural- it was literally all natural science that victor applied to discover the secret of life and shit. so if you look at it through this lens then it totally follows my original thought, theres no reason that the creature shouldnt exist, but victor should not have been the one to create him

EXCEPT FOR THE FACT THAT ONE OF THE CORE TRUTHS OF THE NOVEL AND ONE OF THE REASONS I RESONATE WITH THE STORY SO MUCH IS THAT THE CREATURE AT A FUNDAMENTAL LEVEL IS INCAPABLE OF BEING ACCEPTED BY SOCIETY. thats why he begs victor for a companion, he knows he will always be alone and no one will ever truly empathize with him. his entire life story sees him attempting to fit in with the beauty of the world, and only finding pain and suffering. and so now im stuck with this eternal debate in my mind, is this because he actually is an unnatural creation that he is unable to find a home? or is his being deemed unnatural a symptom of the very thing preventing him from being accepted by the world: humanity's fear/hatred of that which is different. and i just. im so stuck with this concept, this back and forth of nature vs the unnatural and where the creature falls in this spectrum; how much of nature is determined by us? im gay as fuck and incredibly transgender; people scream abomination at me all the time and that makes me more inclined to say unnatural is a meaningless word in this context. hes unnatural the same way i am, that is to say not at all because we both fucking exist. but then my brother brought up the fact that he is made up of corpses and theres the issue with desecration of the dead and lack of consent with ones body parts being reanimated but thats less unnatural to me and more unethical. and maybe thats the reason this is sticking with me so much because everyone around me was acting like this was a question of nature when really its a question of ethics. and maybe thats what my teacher meant and was trying to get at, but my classmates took it the nature route because everyone takes it the nature route (with good reason i think for how much they bring up the same topics in the text itself). but i really dont think nature matters in this context, so much as the ethics behinds victors actions before and after creating the creature

this is barely a conclusion and yet its the one ive arrived to so. thanks for the excuse to ramble, hopefully these thoughts make more sense written out than they do in my head

[derangedthots]

I'm really curious about your writing process and everything ctf, got a million questions but most of them you probably can't answer because spoilers 😅.

If that's OK, I wanted to ask some more general, behind-the-scenes things? (if not just ignore them)

Like, who out of the truly secondary (as in, they don't appear that much/aren't that central to the plot) characters you like/enjoy writing the most/least and why?, what scenes came easily vs which ones were a pain to get just right? , is there anything/anyone that's been flying under readers' radars but will be "a surprise tool for later"? , when it comes to reader reaction, is there anything in particular you didn't expect or that you thought may happen but didn't?

And finally, when writing about the Tullys (Kermit, Elmo, Oscar, Grover...), have you ever been overcome by the mental image and ensuing hilarity of everyone else as human and them as Muppets? (I had the realization midscene and got the giggles BAD 🤔😲😳🤭😂)

hi darling🥰💕

i'm always getting such fantastic questions from you guys and don't worry, i can actually answer all of these ones haha

out of the truly secondary characters, it's hard to choose a fav when it comes to writing them. it's good that you narrowed down which ones you meant by secondary bc i love almost all of my ocs but it just so happens a lot of them also reoccur and play important parts LOL. if i had to choose someone tho...maybe matilda? she just gives such matronly but no-nonsense vibes and i have nothing but respect for that personality type. not to mention, i feel like with any building/home/estate, the kitchens are always one of the places where everybody knows something. it's where the food gets made which already gives very "this is the heart of the place" vibes but also lots of ppl pass through there, which means there is always tea (both literally and metaphorically). matilda's fun to write bc she's aptly positioned to receive a lot of information, while also being highly responsible and respected for her job (srsly never EVER mess with the cooking staff anywhere), and idk i just like that abt her lol. i realize i haven't written much of her yet but hopefully that'll change soon. also who knows, my answer for fav secondary character to write might very well change as we go along (i did say this was a difficult choice haha)😅🤷🏻‍♀️

as for least favorite? bors. it's bors. no real spoilers but yeah, you'll find out why

what scenes came easily? is it bad if i say none😭 i think almost every scene i've written has been jam-packed with detail/characterization which means very little relaxation while writing for me lol. oh actually, on second thought, i think any scene with vermax? just bc he never actually says anything and his interactions with jace are all pretty straightforward. LMAO that's not a v interesting answer but it's the best one i have for you rn😂😂

as for what scenes were the hardest/took the most pains to get just right, i'd have to say the really emotional ones just bc whew - jace's emotions are really quite heavy and i want to convey how he processes (or doesn't process) them as authentically as possible. his scene with daemon in the dragonpit took me forever and i was constantly switching back and forth btwn writing that scene and other ones bc i needed the brain break

weirdly enough, i'd say any scenes between jacemond themselves are both easier and more difficult? they're in a weird liminal space. on one hand, they flow quickly bc i love writing them, they ARE our romantic leads after all lol, the origin and main impetus for why i'm writing the story (besides fixing what hotd broke), but also their scenes together are always charged so i have to do a lot of thinking while i'm working on them

my only advice for now regarding something that's been flying under the readers' radars but will become a special little mousekatool (god how american of me) for later in the story is:

just like jace, you should keep your eyes open and pay attention to the shadows👥

if we're going off what i've read in the comments/seen in my asks, i will admit i was surprised no one mentioned jace's relationship to rhaenys in terms of how he learned to braid from her. then again, i'm just very soft abt the idea of baby jace getting his little fingies caught in her hair and then jace practicing on his siblings+parents after they moved to dragonstone. but honestly i'm just endlessly thankful for all the responses and continued interest regardless🥹💕💕

the tullys tho. omg the tullys. i'm so glad you brought this up bc i absolutely had to hold back my laughter while writing their scenes i'm sorry but george is a comedian for naming them after muppets😭😭 i know he ran out of ideas for names but sir? the muppets? really? i'm over here trying to picture two charming young men with red hair for kermit and oscar and instead have to physically fight back images of a stuffed green frog puppet and a green whatever-oscar-is in a trashcan💀 little benjicott blackwood sparring with two muppets i'm wheezing babes😂😭

[nemetonisevilpassiton]

Where the Monsters Live - a teen wolf meta

 I haven't written a teen wolf meta in some time not because I think everything has been said but it's hard to open a conversation when no one is listening. But with the movie coming I think it's finally time for me to explain the Nightbreed thing.

Because I keep mentioning it and then never explain why.

There are inspirations I can prove [Event Horizon], there are those I know are absolutely true but there's not QUITE enough information [Legacy of Kain] and then there's Nightbreed.

Davis knows Clive Barker's work, I can prove that  easily - [a three part mega meta about Hellraiser and Peter] but then there's Nightbreed.

If Hellraiser is about want Nightbreed is about the outsider. It is considered one of the first queer movies [one of the others, Nightmare on Elm Street 2 is heavily referenced in season 2 with Jackson] and where Freddy is an analogue for Jesse's homosexuality [or bisexuality, depending on how you read it] but Nightbreed has no easily determined as gay content but if it got any more queer I'd be surprised.

Jodorowski [the guy who wanted to make the animated Dune movie] called it the "the first truly gay fantasy horror epic," and hyped the slash potential between patient and doctor but other critics said that was a vast understatement. Tyler Coates argues that it represents queerness and otherness ""Because normalcy is subjective and based solely on how the majority defines it, it's important to establish mini-societies and cultures with people like you"

Nightbreed is the narrative is one of a young man [Aaron Boone] who is manipulated by a male authority figure [Decker] into believing himself a monster and seeking a sanctuary becomes a literal monster. Or Clive Barker, a gay man writing in the UK in the 1980s [the same period Sandman was written to give you some context] who took the idea of "if you will make me the monster I will show you how monstrous I can be" with the idea of the monster as victim. Boone, who only wants to belong, becomes their saviour because he wants to save a single person, a human who takes his side.

Unfortunately before I can take this further with the narrative I have to explain the second narrative = the one of the movie. Barker wrote Cabal and all was good, then because of the popularity of Hellraiser he was approached by Morgan Creek who thought that Cabal [a novella] would be easier to adapt than Weaveworld. Burned by previous adaptations of his work [Rawhead Rex - as bad as you think it might be it's actually worse] Barker agreed as long as he could direct [as he did with Hellraiser] but he was tortured by studio execs who recut the movie behind his back. When the movie came out everyone knew that it was a pasted together mess where they took the core narrative of monsters as victims [whilst still being monsters] with over an hour cut from the finished cut.  But the movie still formed a huge cult following.

Years later a VHS copy of the original work print which is the longest cut which restored the original ending and was so popular at horror conventions that Scream Factory convinced Fox to restore the original work and released it as the "Cabal Cut" [So that's three different versions with different narratives so far, the Theatrical Cut, the Directors cut, and the Cabal Cut] and that convinced Clive Barker to get back involved and he released a fourth cut.

So which one of these has Davis seen? All of the above.

As a teenager I found so much comfort in the Theatrical Cut and my mother, knowing how much it meant to me, once taped an entirely new cut off the BBC, which is probably the only one I can say that Davis HASN'T seen and it might be the shortest cut.

So yeah

the story is about Boone, a young man who has been and out of psychiatric care all of his life, in the book he has heard of Midian there and incorporated it into his own personal mythology, in the film he dreams of it. Boone's troubles include impotence [actually important] but over the past few months he has been doing better, he's weaned himself off his meds, he's in a healthy relationship with Lori [I'm unsure if the character in Teen Wolf is named for her or Lori Stroud] when his doctor, Decker [played by David Cronenberg! that David Cronenberg] who convinces Boone that he has been killing people in his sleep and he has to turn him in after killing 17 people including woman and kids. He gives Boone what he says are valium and Boone, tripping balls, walks in front of a truck.

In the hospital he meets a man called Narcisse who mentions Midian, to get more information Boone manipulates Narcisse into giving him directions and Narcisse determined that Boone take him with him peels off his face [in the movie it's everything on his head but his face], whilst the hospital is working to fix this Decker shows up with the police and Boone flees. With the directions he goes to Midian, in the book this is a cemetary next to an abandoned gold town, but in the film it's just a random cemetary in the wilds. There he falls asleep and wakes up to two of the "breed" Kinski and Peloquin who want to eat him, telling Boone he's an "innocent" [and killed nobody] Peloquin [who gets the best lines] bites Boone and chases him to the gates of the cemetary where Boone is confronted by the police. Decker convinces the police Boone has a gun and they shoot him dead.

In the movie we see Boone's body reawakening but in the book it's left "he's dead"

The story is then taken up by Lori who disbelieving of Boone's status as a "babykiller" wants to go to the place where he died and drives out there, meeting a woman called Cheryl [who has the second best lines in the movie] and goes to the cemetary where she finds a weird creature and a woman begging her to bring her out of the sunlight. lori does this and the creature turns into a child who cannot understand that the light hurts her because she's too little, and forms a bond between the two, her mother Rachel, tries to help Lori but is shut down by Doug Bradley. Going back into the sunlight Decker goes after Lori because he thinks Boone survived the shooting and now knows his secret - that HE is the serial killer. Boone comes to save her but he isn't alive, he's "beyond death". Narcisse interferes and Decker escapes.

Decker goes to the local motel kills everyone and then to the police station telling the police chief, Eigermann, that Boone is alive and he did it. Boone has been thrown out of Midian for threatening its security and Lori takes him to the motel where "everyone's dead, Dave", overwhelmed by the blood Boone eats some of the bits. Eigermann shows up and arrests him getting a doctor to prove he is "walking around in my fucking cell dead" and that Decker was right and he has helpers under the cemetary. A few deputies go to the cemetary and find Ohnaka, a peaceful breed who looks human, they drag him into the light and start one of the most uncomfortable scenes in horror as he starts to turn to dust and turns to each of them in turn but in their horror they push him away until he dies. If you can watch that scene without thinking oh it's a gay lynching I'll be very surprised.

Eigermann realising the sun is his best weapon puts together a mob of rednecks with all the weaponry they can find and attacks the cemetary and the necropolis beneath it. Understanding the vast majority of the "monsters" are perfectly harmless and incapable of defending themselves plans are put in place for them to flee but ....

okay here's where most of the changes happen, there's what happens in the book, what happens in the theatrical cut and what happens in the cabal/directors cut

in the book after springing Boone from jail he realises he is empowered [physically and sexually] by his change and returns to Midian to put up enough of a defence to get everyone out, he fights with Decker and kills him, trying to remove Midian's founder, Baphomet, he is rebranded Cabal who will gather up the nightbreed and find them a new home, Lori realising that he is immortal stabs herself so he has to turn her to save her life and they go off into the sunset. This is basically how the director's cut/cabal cut ends except sometimes Narcisse is killed by Decker, sometimes not. In the book Ashberry and Eigermann put together a monster hunting squad leaving the story open.

in the theatrical cut Boone releases the feral uncontrollable nightbreed, the berserkers to help them fight and is seen as victorious, the tag-along priest, Ashberry, finds Baphomet whose blood turns him into a sort of nightbreed and he resurrects Decker to help him hunt them down.

so- yeah, not much difference.

Now some of you will have already realised that the story of a young man manipulated by the one male role model he has and bitten, transformed into a beast and forced to become saviour with the help of his plucky love interest is what teen wolf seems to be without any digging. But that core doesn't QUITE work even with a cursory reading, because Scott doesn't want to save the monsters, he never sees the werewolves as anything BUT monsters and Boone's easy everyman status doesn't work with Scott at all, although Scott is easily as manipulative. And I wonder if the change between them, Scott's inability to be the saviour Boone becomes, Scott's unwillingness to do what Boone is happy to do [kill to protect], Scott's inability to give up Allison where Boone constantly tries to drive Lori away to keep her safe puts up this dissonance.

Yet the parallels are very really obvious which is why Nightbreed [never a good movie, an important movie, but it features ACTING!, matte paintings instead of landscapes, wooden and wobbling set stages, the best director in it is one of the hammiest actors] keeps coming up. You can't NOT mention it because the parallels are so clear but they're also so wonky.

When I rewatched Hellraiser I was surprised that the Frank/Julia thread in Teen Wolf was so apparent, and so thorough between Peter and Lydia, how the corruption of the mental health facilities was so blatant in both. It was in your face, with Nightbreed it's like Teen Wolf was made from the memory of the film he watched years before but it's all so deliberate. Making Scott a saviour would have been easier than what we got, a character who has all of Boone's worst traits and none of his good. Scott's costuming echoes James Sunderland from Silent Hill but Derek is dressed, especially in season 1, just like Boone. Derek's early incompetence is not something Boone ever struggles with and Boone was bitten where Derek was born. Deaton = Decker is easy but Deaton's motives are never revealed, Decker wants a scapegoat to keep killing and will do anything he can to do that, but Deaton never stops manipulating Scott, both in ways that are positive and negative.

Gerard and Eigermann are probably besties.

The concept of Monster = Victim is unique to barker, no one did it before or after to the same extent, there are plenty of "man is the real monster" but that's not quite what happens, the nightbreed ARE monsters, they include cannibals and people who can turn into animals and smoke, Dracula would fit right in and they'd feed him happily, but they are also children, the disabled, the ones who could never pass as human. And Barker, in Nightbreed's most famous quote puts it succinctly and sums up Teen Wolf very well which is why I'm SO adamant that they're related.

Rachel: "To be smoke, to be a wolf, to live for ever: it's not so terrible. You call us monsters but when you dream, you dream of flying and changing and living forever, you envy us, and what you envy..."

Lori: "we destroy."

What is Teen Wolf if not that envy, and a character who is both a wolf and a destroyer, one who envies but cannot accept anything else, who did not seek to join the monsters, and hates that he has become that. And in the hands of a better writer we wouldn't have the same Nightbreed dilemma, where it almost manages to say what it wants to say and what it does it does by accident and can't be considered "good" as much as resonant.Outcasts found in Nightbreed, in Midian, a place to belong, a place where their sins, both real and imagined, would be forgiven, where they would not be judged.The same is true of the mythical "Hale pack", judging by fandom and just numbers, more people are fascinated by the Hale Pack under Derek Hale, whose journey is less like Boone's than even Scott's even if they are dressed the same, [usually this fits SO well, Scott's comparison to James Sunderland is blatant, Stiles' story matches that of Angela in Silent Hill 2 who he dresses like at the same time as Scott first appears in the green jacket, his abuse by his mother is the same as  hers, although the Sheriff is a much better parent than Angel's father whom it is heavily implied sexually abused his daughter]

I could write books about the two of them, and why Nightbreed was so influential both on this and media in the wider sense, even when all we had was the theatrical cut people were writing books and albums and making works about Midian, even before fandom found its home on the internet people cosplayed named members of the 'breed, the Peloquin, Rachel, Lylesburg etc. But I've already written 2,5k words and I've barely scratched the surface.

Maybe what Davis wanted to write, because it's meatier between the teeth as a writer, was what if Boone didn't want to save the 'breed. What if he worked with Decker to bring about their destruction - and he botched the landing - hard.

[longeyelashedtragedy]

apologies for the rambling which is about to ensue, your latest fic gave me a lot of emotions and i feel as though i might go mad if i don't write them somewhere. please also excuse my english at times. thank you.

as someone who 'grew up' with arsenal, i've known xhaka since he first signed when i was a child. being a child, i idolised everyone at that club, and xhaka was no exception. i would be furious at anyone who dared say a word against him, especially arsenal fans who were meant to be defending him.

to me, he was simply a man whose heart was too big for his body. a childish view, maybe. but his heart was pure, and i refused to believe anything different. i still do. your words: 'God, but he has a heart of molten gold' ring true for me.

xhaka had such a large impact on the club, and on me as a person. as you put it, 'only Granit could leave a void that has weight.' trying to navigate arsenal without him, particularly at a time where we appear to be doing 'better' as a club can only be described as painful, especially when the club feels more like a family than an organisation. when i saw them lift the community shield, the only thought in my head was that xhaka should have been there to lift it with them. your words, especially the way it was written in second person (but still so clearly from arteta's perspective), target the child in my heart that fought so dearly for him to receive the smallest amount of respect.

the way the fic ends too, with 'You will stay there, where He once was', it feels like a punch in the gut. xhaka leaving left a hole which i don't know what to do with. i haven't known a life without him in 7 years. it feels strange, almost humorous, to grieve so much over a footballer. maybe i am overcompensating for something. but it is undeniable that xhaka was truly unlike anyone else. nobody will be like him, and it is foolish to expect them to be.

in any case, the most important part of this entire ramble (apologies again) is that you truly have a talent. this may not mean much from an anonymous person on tumblr, but i mean it with all my heart. the way you can take your pain and turn it into something so raw and beautiful is an art. it reminds me of a quote i saw about an art piece, but which applies to you too.

'van gogh will ressurect to paint something better and die because he cannot.'

thank you for writing. thank you for existing. i pray you continue to do both for a long time.

hi, i got this message yesterday and took a moment to respond because it was truly so beautiful i didn't even know what to say (i still don't, but that's a good thing.)

i felt so heard and understood here. i've been an arsenal fan for only 3 years, but other than that i feel like i could have written every word of this.

a man whose heart was too big for his body is, i think, maybe the perfect way to say it. there wasn't enough room for how big his heart was or how much it felt (even at times when maybe he should have acted differently.) i think that people haven't really encountered someone like that and just interpreted it--and him--all wrong.

the club does feel like a family these couple years, and so it's even more heartbreaking that granit was not there to lift the community shield. he put in a lot of hard work to get us there. watching arsenal so far this season has been just as exciting and emotional as ever, but at the same time, there's something that feels missing and i think there will always be something missing. that's how much space he took up--so much space that his absence, as i said, does the same thing.

thank you so much for these compliments, i don't even know how to express--i struggle with the concept of unexpected loss, for personal reasons, and i felt so much pain over this and felt like i couldn't fully express why, and i didn't quite see my pain reflected elsewhere (because we're all sad about granit in our own ways!) so finally was able to convey it or so i had hoped. i'm so glad it worked for you, and honestly, this message was so nice and means so much to me and i don't even feel deserving. thank you so much--i'm glad to know there are other people who feel like this, and my inbox is always open to talk about this, anon or not.

thank you ❤️❤️❤️

[flaringgoosebumps]

Just some thoughts because I wonder what the Duffers are going to do actually because it could go either way.

They'll have this new show that they undoubtedly want to be successful, but depending on how stranger things ends, they might lose their target audience.

Whether Milarky or Byler is canon, a large chunk of audiences Will be pissed. They would truly have to tell the story they want to tell because it doesn't matter which way they go, someone is going to be upset. I'm hoping they've made an epic scifi coming of age queer story especially because even without digging into subtext some things wouldn't make sense. But none of us will actually know until 2024. And I wonder if they meant for Mildew to be endgame, why does it feel flat? Why does it feel like they lost their chemistry after season 3? Even people who don't ship Byler notice that? Why does Mike's love confession not give me the same type of joy that even the cheesiest and poor written ones in romcoms and teen dramas do? Like personally, I'm a sensitive person, it is not difficult to get these waterworks going and this shouldn't have been any different unless it was meant to. Because if I felt like he truly did love El, without question, I could feel bad for Will and not dislike Montauk's relationship because of it. But my aversion to it has more to do with how Mike handles their conflicts than what I hope Will could have. The sad part is, Melvin always has the potential to be what it looks like at surface level. Just a dumb teen boy, feeling inadequate and stumbling his way to the girl he loves, making mistake after mistake, almost losing her, only to ultimately end up with her.

But the contrast of her and Will is always there, especially when it involves Mike. From the very first episode, Mike is shown to have a deeper emotional connection with Will than quite literally anyone else. Every season brings attention to that. We saw Mike, two seasons in a row, literally fight tooth and nail to save/be there for Will. Milesaway was being built up in the meantime but in comparison to what Will and Mike have, it feels like an after thought.

There are narrative directions that they took with Milwaukee could've been compelling but Mike didn't even seem that worried about El in the first place. He threw away her break up letter as a soon as Will said "if you keep looking at that, it's not going to change" like?? The people she was with were government agents that locked her away before, you're not worried they'll do that again. In that moment, it could be the last time he ever heard from her. Then even the heart to hearts with Will, it doesn't feel like he loves her romantically. It feels like he feels obligated to be with her because she's a girl who saved his life multiple times and honestly who else could ever measure up to that? But he doesn't emotionally support her unless she is in the line of battle and that's concerning. He had several days to contemplate how he messed up, what upset her, how to mend it and still, it felt like he didn't.

He knew knew how to fix things with Will almost immediately, knew exactly what hurt him, what to apologize for, what parts of his words to emphasize to Will and mended every single thing within one day.

Why couldn't he do that with El? Why does his attempt to comfort her feel dismissive and deflective? Why when he spoke about her to Will was it centered around her abilities but not who she was as a person? Feelings of inadequacy are a normal conflict in relationships but the fact that it is centered specifically around her supernatural abilities is concerning. He doesn't talk about how brave it was for her to even leave the lab in the first place, he doesn't talk about how he feels sad in her absence, doesn't compliment her appearance anymore, doesn't compliment her at all, doesn't express that he wants her around because he enjoys her company, doesn't talk about their laughs together or any significant emotional impact she's had outside of her powers or how literally no one else in the world will ever be her, and that's what makes her the most important person in the world to him. None of that is expressed.

And beforehand.

"If I would've said that thing, she would've taken me with her" this specifically feels like he doesn't feel it, like it's not something he wants to say but he knew she wanted to hear it.

I think this is part of the reasons why it hit Bylers so hard when we thought we were being queerbaited because they put emphasis on Mike seeming to not want to say what she wants him to say and then he does. Narratively, it doesn't make any sense that he claims he loves her like that, even if you only use s4 as a reference. Anyone that's been in love before is adding it up and the math ain't mathing with Mortuary. I'm sure it would be less of a sting for Will or us to be hurt if these efforts were going for an epic, hold your breath, there is no way anyone or anything can stop them from being with one another type of love but at this point Milkshake even though it's been built up since s1 feels like a ship they just put there to move the story.

My point is, regardless of which ship sails by the end of the show, the Duffers will face some kind of backlash. If they go with Milkvan, they would be giving us the literal bare minimum. Not because it's your regular boy falls for girl story but because they didn't properly build their romantic storyline in a way that makes you root for them unless you're someone who roots for straight relationships by default. If this were a queer relationship, I would still have the same affliction with it. But if they go with Byler, it will be an epic scifi coming of age queer story and regardless of backlash from homophobes, they'd be legends. They'd be the first people to do something like this, and I hope that the Duffers got the balls to do it lmao