#or maybe they’re a reincarnation of sorts?

[quibbs126]

Some more sketches from the past week or so

I’ve been back at home this week (and will be for the next month or so) and because of that I haven’t really been drawing much

Uh, let’s see, we got a sketch of Strawberry Jam Cookie

Then I also drew a tiny Dark Cacao Cookie, basically freshly baked. I like to think Dark Cacao at least was Witch baked, so this would have been as young as he’d ever be. He found a sword in the oven and basically fled for his life, but the whole experience was traumatic for him. He basically kept running until he found himself at the Giant Icing Ridge. He kept going into the wastelands until he was found either by the young North and South Dragons, or he found their parent, whom I’m going to call the Cookie Crème Dragon, and he was taken in by them, with him believing himself to be one of them.

I realize this backstory makes him not related to dragons other than being adopted, which I’m not too sure I’m fond of, but whatever

As for his experience in the Oven, he only remembers it as a recurring dream, one he’s not sure where it comes from

Then I tried to come up with some concepts for Choco Crème and Milk Crème’s Cookie forms. Not sure if I’m sold on these final designs, but I based them off of these White Sage and Black Sage I found on the Wiki

However the shapes and colors didn’t match their respective dragons, so I changed that. Do you think it looks good?

I also tried out other colors, like one that made them look more similar to Dark Cacao, giving them the same skin tone. Though looking at the dragons we have in this series, I’m not sure that would be how they look? Well they seem to operate differently from the Tropical Dragons, so whatever

But also they don’t have legs

Then on a completely unrelated note, I was trying to come up with something for young Golden Cheese. My two options are either A: she had tiny wings and could barely fly (think like Scootaloo), or B: Golden Cheese is actually a Cheesebird who somehow became a Cookie. Or she’s able to transform into a Cheesebird. Personally I think I prefer the Cheesebird angle, considering that according to what I can find on the Wiki, Golden Cheese acts similar to the Cheesebirds, and also it might explain her wings. Also it would be funny if the origins of one of the Ancients is just one of the group going “hey check out this cool bird I found let’s keep it”

Then I just drew a sketch of tiny Cacao with his siblings. Basically my idea now is that when they met, the two were basically hatchlings, so they were pretty small. Over time they got bigger pretty quick, and they’ve just kept on growing in the millennia since. I’m thinking the Cookie Crème Dragon’s body is what actually made the Icing Ridges when it laid to rest, so basically those two are eventually gonna grow to a gargantuan size

Anyways yeah, hope you like, I plan to try and draw better art later

[irisinluv]

Isekaied as the Yandere Villain!? PT 1

All I could do was stare at my reflection. This had to be a joke. I was going to wake up in my bed, right this instant.

“FUCK!”

Ok, so, pinching myself hurts. That’s fine. This is like. Some sort of lucid dream. What do they say to do if you’re lucid dreaming? Oh, that’s right, put your finger in your palm, it’ll phase through!

I resist the urge to scream as my finger meets solid flesh.

You see, I’m not in the right body. Or the right world from what I can tell. No, I’m supposed to be back home, waking up in a panic as I realize my alarm didn’t go off cuz my phone died after I stayed up way too late reading manga.

But of course, I’m not late to work, I’m in a lavish bedchamber right out of the latest webcomic I’d been reading! And by the looks of it…. I’m the crown princes crazy fiancé! As much as I love reading about the Isekai trope, I never wanted to be in one! And come on- as the Yandere Villain!? Couldn’t this at least be original? There’s hundred of stories just like “my next life as a villainess,” why couldn’t I be like… a stable hand or something? Ugh. Ok. Think!

I need to get home. Do the protagonists ever get back home in the stories I read? I pace around my room and rack my brain over every webcomic I’ve ever read, every manga I waited in line for, every anime I binged, even the unfinished manhwas! I can’t think of a single fucking one where they get home?

Well this isn’t going to stop me. I have a cat who’s going to absolutely flip if she’s not given fresh kibble in the morning. She has enough in her bowl for another 2 days but she needs it topped off ok! She’s a princess! I can’t be stuck here! Who’s going to throw her pompom toy for her if I’m not there???

What did all these have in common? What’s the barebones trope layout? Ok let’s see

1) person either died or falls asleep and wakes up in a new world…. Check

2) person is the villain!…. Check

3) to avoid the characters terrible death, person tries to change the story, ends up being new protagonist…

Ohhh… hey…. Do these Isekai characters ever just…. Play along? Even the “reincarnated as a baby” ones, they only play along till they’re old enough to try to run away or rework the political structure of the entire city. Maybe that’s it. Make it to the books natural end, and you’ll wake up where you belong. It’s like when you get part of a song stuck in your head. Play the whole song, and it’ll get out.

Ok, I’ve trained most of my adult life for this- I can totally ace this trope! I just have to stalk the crown prince, act totally in love with him, and be a bitch to the female lead. Then my finance will leave me, I’ll do some crazy dramatic act to try to kill the female lead, and then I’ll be exiled or executed, and wake up to feed my cat. How hard can it be?

Hard. It’s very hard.

Where the hell did he go!? My fiancé, the crown prince Eric, was JUST HERE. I swear! He turned that corner back there and then went down this hall… at least I think it was this hall? Ugh! This is impossible! For someone with such loud shoes and an armed escort, you’d think he’d be easier to follow! Now my feet just hurt. They don’t make these fancy shoes to run around the castle all day. They’re meant to daintily peek from beneath my many skirts as I host a tea party or some shit.

Ok. I’ve got this! I’ll just peek into each room until I find him, maybe I can get a better feel for the layout, or maybe find his office and see if he has a schedule or a day planner or something I can use to make this whole stalking thing easier.

I begin snooping, and it’s a bit of thrill to be honest! Back in my real life, I’m the kind of person to hide a wrapper deep in the trash can if I’m babysitting, sitting on the floor playing a game on my phone after the kid goes to bed rather than “making myself at home” the way the parents insisted as they showed me how to access Netflix. I’ve never been a snooper. Now…. Well. It’s totally on brand for this character! I’m not me, I’m a psycho lovesick fool! I giggle a bit at that as my fingers trail over a shelf of beautiful pottery in some sort of sitting room.

“What’s so amusing dearest?”

I practically screech as my heart leaps to my throat and I whirl around, and see the very person I’d been searching for has snuck up on ME…. That’s so unfair!

“W-what? O-oh! Nothing! I was just- uh, admiring the pottery?”

I stutter out as I try to recall how to act like a human being while simultaneously trying to stop feeling my own pulse in my ears. The idiot has the nerve to LAUGH! Full on snort and everything!

“What are you doing in this wing anyways? Weren’t you meant to be out riding today?”

Shit. I was so busy trying to figure out his schedule, I didn’t consider maybe the body I was shoved into had a schedule of her own. Ok. Play it cool- I’ve got this!

“Yes, well, I decided I wasn’t in the mood and wanted to stay in today instead.”

His brows furrow

“Oh, but you love riding? Are you feeling ill? I can fetch the royal physician for you if you-“

“No! That’s- that’s quite alright! I simply wanted a change of schedule, that is all. Um… what about you? What are your plans for the day?”

He looked a bit surprised at that, and a small smile danced on his lips.

“I was just going to the library to do some paperwork, boring stuff really, and then of course our dinner at its regular time.”

I nod like that means anything to me. Ok think, if I were crazy in love with this man, what would I say?

“Would you like some company? Reading in the library sounds really nice, maybe we could have some tea as well?”

Ok. I’m already fucking this up. He looks confused…. God damnit …. I knew I shouldn’t have skimmed over those early chapters- but the translation was shit ok!?

“Well… I’d actually love that. But are you sure? You haven’t exactly shown interest in reading, and you’ve never requested something like this before…. In fact I don’t think I can recall the last time we’ve interacted outside of dinner or a scheduled social event in… well. Ever.”

Wait…. What? Isn’t my character like goo-goo-ga-ga over him? Are you telling me she never asks to just… spend time with her lover? They only talk during dinner and parties or whatever?

“Of course, I think it’ll be relaxing! Just lead the way!”

My brain is working overtime as I smile politely at him as we reach the library and I pretend to browse for books. I’m missing something here. What is-

Oh. Shit. That’s right. I’m supposed to be really insecure and awkward about him. That’s why she stalks him- she spends all her free time obsessing over this man from the shadows, threatening the competition…. Yet chokes up when it comes to how to act natural. Her inferiority complex is what drives her entire character. And then to him, they’re just two nobles in an arranged marriage who speak on dull subjects like the weather and horse rides…. And who barely interact.

This must have been a real big shake up, she always stays out of sight, they never run into each other by chance. And she certainly never would ask to sit and read with him…. Maybe watch him do his work from a hidden keyhole somewhere, but that’s right…. She IS more of a traditional lady with her hobbies. She was raised to be the perfect noble wife, so naturally, her hobbies include things like dancing, needlepoint, and horse riding. The only studies she’s interested in are etiquette and things that noble ladies are supposed to know.

Well…. Shit. That’s so like me to already have fucked this up. But that’s ok. That’s ok- he’s going to meet the female lead and fall in love and so I just have to be the obstacle they need to overcome. Surely the details don’t matter too much…. It’s my first day in the job ok? Not everyone’s perfect!

I find a book that honestly actually sounds interesting, it’s historical, but it’s giving Hellen of Troy, the closest to a dark romance I think I’ll get from an academic personal library like this. I settle into what looks like the comfiest chair in the central area, and begin reading. The prince and I exist comfortably, the only sound being the scratch of his pen, and the occasional rustle of paper as he flips a document or I finish a page. We continue like this for several hours until he puts down his pen and clears his throat, getting my attention.

“I know it’s a long way from dinner…. But I was thinking I’d grab something light for a mid day meal and then take a walk about the gardens …. Would you care to join me?”

Honestly, some lunch and pretty royal gardens sounds like so much fun, so I agree. As we begin walking, I ponder how I can recover from all this.

You know what.. this can totally still go to plan. This is just me being the evil villain and sinking my claws into him! The female lead will appear, and I’ll reveal my true, nasty side to her! She’ll have to fight to save the prince from his marriage to me!

*insert evil laughter!*

“You’re smiling.”

“W-what?”

“A smile. It suits you. You’ve been doing that a lot today….. I like it.”

Ok and now I’m blushing. I go to reply when I suddenly find myself weightless for a moment, and then hit the ground with a hard thump.

“Ow! What the-!?”

My eyes snap up and glare at this pretty blonde girl who just rammed into me, and sent me flying

“Do you not know how to watch where you’re going!? Owww…. Ugh.”

Ok I’m sorry I’m usually a nice and understanding person but I’ve never been literally knocked over before! Who does that to a person?

Eric helps me to my feet and sends a reproachful glare toward the girl, asking me if I’m alright with most concerned look…. And the girl gasps and says,

“C-crown prince Eric! I apologize! I’d didn’t recognize you!”

She drops into a curtsy and lowers her eyes all demure and modest as if she hadn’t just bulldozed me. I send an incredulous look toward Eric…. She… didn’t see HIM? I’m the one she took out? He gives me an equally puzzled look and so I decide, you know what, fuck it. I’m this evil person in this world…. I need to act like it!

“And not recognizing his highness is an excuse for taking out the princess consort, soon to be crown princess? Are you blind or just daft?”

Oh my god I really just called someone daft! This feels like when you stay up late thinking all the witty comebacks you could’ve used against your high school bullies, except actually using them in the moment!

And Eric is being a sweetie and letting me handle this, waiting expectantly for blondie to answer me, just prompting her,

“Well?”

“Forgive me…. Princess consort…. You are right. My oversight in inexcusable. It appears neither of us were looking where we were going. I hope we can start fresh!”

I scoff- that’s it? Who does this bitch think she is? Yes, I was looking at Eric, but I was going a walking pace, who rounds a corner with so much force that you knock someone over?

Suddenly something clicks- oh shit! This is the female lead!!!! This scene happened in the story, just without the prince here. This is good, that means this is on track. Although I gotta say- I was much more on the female main characters side when reading it. Now, I just feel like she’s one of those mean girls in high school who’s not *technically* doing anything mean. Anyways- what was I supposed to say? That’s right.

“Yes…. Well. I’m sure we won’t be seeing much of each other anyways. If you’ll excuse me-“

Nailed ittttt…. Now her line?

“Well, actually…. My name is Lady Cressida, and I’ll be staying in the place for several months as my father is a foreign ambassador overseeing trade agreements with his highness the king. So I imagine we will be seeing *plenty* of each other. That goes for you too your highness! So please- forgive me, I look forward to getting to know each of you better!”

Oh that’s so cool, seeing her recite the lines from the story. But ok- I have a role to play as well. I scoff and grab Eric’s arm, pulling him behind me as I storm off, playing the part of entitled lover, stuck up and irritated at this ambassadors daughter who DARED to speak to my love.

Yea, this will work, Eric will think Cressida is a genuine sweetie, and see me as being the unreasonable bitch who’s refusing to accept her apology, or apologize for not looking where I was going either. And now I’m manhandling him- totally unlady like. God I’m killing this aren’t I? Minimum wage job and demanding cat, here I come!

What I don’t see, as I lead Eric by the arm, is the cold glare he shoots towards Cressida, before smiling down at our connected hands, an unreadable look in his eyes.

Part 2

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 169

Danny is from a world where everyone has wings, even if most have long since lost the ability to fly. Something about loading and aspect ratio, wings being too small, body too heavy, now mostly used as display, whatever. 

It doesn’t matter even if he had blueprints from when he was like six of a jetpack to help fly. It won’t work anyway and hey, he has his ghost form! Which uh, might be perhaps, affecting his wings which were maybe sort of scorched black and practically down to the bone thanks to the accident. 

It doesn’t matter, he swears. Though he’s admittedly relieved to see the new feathers growing in are different from Dan’s angry sunset. Even if they’re not even supposed to be able to grow back. Alright, this is fine, no one is going to notice! It’s not like everyone knows about the poor Fenton kid whose wings were absolutely destroyed thanks to an accident! It’s fine. 

He’s not flying in a half-panic towards the Far Frozen while crying because his wings are coming back and he’s so scared. He didn’t panic and instantly fled the moment Jazz pointed them out while changing the bandages. 

He definitely didn’t trip over something while wiping away said tears and blacking out from all the stress and all of his problems that he definitely mentioned to someone and isn’t keeping a secret. Definitely. 

Hawkwoman and Hawkman would like everyone to know that neither of them were expecting a very small child to be spat out of the villain of that week’s machine that should definitely not be a portal. A very small child, maybe nine or ten, with a multitude of concerning wounds both old and fresh. Which isn’t even beginning to touch on the wings. 

Feathered, like baby down despite the gnarled scars, unlike their own metallic, with the beginning of tiny specklings like stars amidst the darker fuzz peeking from the wounded flesh. 

Who?! Who dared?! It’s (at least to the forever reincarnating duo) a literal baby! They still have down! Tiny baby fuzz! Was it the portal?! Oh this villain is going to taste their maces for causing this if that’s the case! 

The rest of the Justice League would honestly like to know what just happened and are honestly unsure on if they should stop the two…

[coralinnii]

Congrats for reaching 2.7k followers !! Do you think you could do either Silver or Sebek (or both if it’s not too much >_<) for the Villain/ess AU? Again, congrats!!!🎉🍾🎈🎊

‧₊˚✧Being Reincarnated into a New World as the Bad Guy‧₊˚✧

↳ villain/ess au series

feat: Silver ❋ Sebek genre: enemies(?)-to-something more Silver ver, comrades-to-something more Sebek ver., slow burn romance,  note: no pronouns used, prejudice against humans, reader is a fae in Silver ver., reader is a human in Sebek vers., Sebek’s reader is just done with Lilia’s shenanigans, set in the same universe as Malleus' and Lilia's ver. but not necessarily simultaneously,

Villain/ess au masterlist 2.7k followers writing event

If you look past the whole…absurdity that is being reincarnated into a dating simulation of your previous world, you'd say you hit the jackpot here.

You suddenly found yourself as a minor antagonist who was supposed to be love obstacle to one of the popular targets of the game, the venerable Dragon Fae King Malleus Draconia. As such, you became a stereotypically beautiful but unbelievably vain fae character of high social standing, an antithesis to the lovable and modest main protagonist. 

The heroine can have the dragon king, you thought. You’ll just dab away your tears while you bathe in luxury.

If you could have one complaint…it would probably be your “original” personality. 

You and your family were infamous for their stance against mixing with humans. Coming from a long line of pure fae blood, your original character held hostility over “pathetic parasites leeching off the purity of the faes.” 

Oooff, what a piece of work you apparently were. 

It was this prejudice that your family demanded the engagement between you and Malleus, and the reason for the vicious treatment of the main heroine…which inevitably led to the loss of your golden spoon, and imprisonment of you and your family. 

Oh, screw that! Absolutely not! 

Thus began the start of your total image revamp. You were going to prove that you definitely won’t be an obstacle for the unity of human-fae harmony, or if the dragon king were to suddenly bring a human as his consort-to-be. 

But sadly it was easier said than done. 

“What is that person doing here?” 

The patrolling knights whispered to themselves as they narrowed their gaze towards your back. Their searing glares felt burning to your very being, but you smiled through it as you carried a large basket of goodies.

“I wish to do my part as a noble and help sponsor this orphanage, and I brought some sandwiches if the children would like some.” 

“Hah! Do you even realize what kind of orphanage this is?” One of the knights sneered at you. This was one of the few shelters that was willing to house human children that turned up in the forest near the kingdom’s borders, often abandoned and left to perish if not for the Vanrouge family who founded this orphanage. 

Unfortunately, the duke family is its only sponsor as prejudice still runs strong in many noble families, yours included. 

“I’m aware, and I want to assist with the upkeep of this orphanage.” You asserted your stance. “I understand that the Vanrouge family is very busy so I volunteer my assistance since my manor is close.” 

Many of the knights aren’t convinced. They stood in the way of the orphanage as though they’re guarding from someone dangerous. Some tried to whisper stealthily amongst each other but your fae ears could pick up their words.

“This is probably a cruel trick.” “Maybe the food is poisoned.” “How terrible.” 

“If you gentlemen would like, you are free to try some of the sandwiches.” You offered kindly, but your smile was strained and your fingers tight around the basket’s handles. 

You expected this, but the building frustration and humiliation is hard to suppress. You knew your family’s reputation precedes you and their doubts are valid, but to suspect that you are some sort of monster who could harm children for simply being human? You would never, how could they…

“Thank you for such kindness, your grace.”

Your bitter spiral broke at the sound of a clear voice, strong but warm at the same time. A hand reached out to pick out a small sandwich, which your gaze followed to meet a pair of the most beautiful eyes you have ever seen. 

To the shock of the other knights, this man unhesitantly took a large bite of the handmade sandwich, then cleanly finished it in a few more bites. His auroral eyes shone with such warmness as he thanked you once more. “It was delicious.”

“Silver, careful!” The knight called out to the mysterious man before you. “You shouldn’t trust anything from that snake-“ 

“Hold your tongue, sir.” Despite showing nothing but kindness before, the fair-haired knight was quick to sternly reprimand his comrade before he turned to you to bow his head. “I apologize for my comrade’s rude behavior. I will accept any punishment in his stead.” 

Flustered, you replied quickly. “Please think nothing of it! I know of my family’s… notoriety, so I understand the suspicions you and your knights have.” 

“I’d rather judge someone by their actions rather than their family.” He smiled, and you swore your heart nearly stopped for a moment. What an unfairly beautiful man, you thought. 

Like a practiced knight, the beautiful man offered you a hand. “Allow me to carry the basket for you. The children will be excited to see a new face.” 

Wordlessly, you gave the basket to him and proceeded to walk towards the orphanage, ignoring the stunned faces of the speechless men, not that you cared to acknowledge them anymore. Afterall, your attention has been stolen by this mysterious man next to you. 

You were surprised how such a handsome and kind man liked him to show up. The way the other knights were quick to obey him, he was probably of higher standing or reputation. From his visuals to his manners, you thought he was definitely target route material. So, what was he doing as a minor NPC? 

“What was his name? Silver? Was there a character like him in the main story?” You racked your brain for an answer. Surely a catch like him wouldn’t be left in the sidelines, unless…

As though one of Malleus’ lightning struck you, your body broke out in cold sweat as you finally recognized the suspiciously attractive knight beside you. 

Silver, one of Malleus’ most trusted knights and the heroine’s closest friend in Malleus’ route. Believed to hold unrequited love for the protagonist, he swore to protect her, and eventually helped to capture and prosecute the love rival’s family for their wrongdoings. 

In short, this good-looking man will be responsible for sending you to jail for bullying his one-sided love.  

Oh, fu-

Was this punishment for making fun of your friend for liking this dumb dating sim game? If it was, this is a bit much, isn’t it? The muscles in your body screamed for mercy as day after day, you were put through hellish training, stared down by an unmoving commander.

You vaguely remembered the plot of the story, but couldn’t figure out who you were, or if you were of any significance to the plot. For all you know, you were some human soldier for the fae kingdom, currently going through hell.

As a commoner human amongst fae, you were treated with jeers and insults from your so-called comrades. Some of your peers were more affable but there were some poorly made characters clearly just there to make your life miserable.

“Is this my villain arc? Is that it?” But you were barely above it all, since the soldier’s pay was decent, and all the school-ground taunts were easy to ignore. Honestly, there was only one person that really grinds your gears. 

“You are insulting Lord Malleus’ great name if this is all you can do!” 

That loud voice, now unmistakable to you, belonged to the obnoxious soldier Sebek Zigvolt who seems to live off proving his worth to the king of this kingdom. 

“The goal was to do 100 push-ups, and that’s what I did.” 

“Hah, that is mere child-play. I can go on for a hundred more!” If you have to give him something, he puts his money where his mouth is as the green-haired man then proceeded to continue on with the workout. 

Be it a cruel joke or karma from your past life, you became partners with this loudmouth half-fae. The commander, Duke Vanrouge reasoned that it was to learn comradery and to balance each other’s flaws, but you suspect that there was more to it. But screw it, you don’t have the energy to pursue the real reason. 

And so, you were stuck in this partnership/rivalry with Malleus’ most loyal soldier. 

“We’re wasting time, weak human!” 

You should get a hearing check after this, as you were unfavorably close to your partner, who despite telling him to stay quiet, continues to scream right into your ear. 

“The course just started, you lousy crocodile.” You sighed as you knew Sebek wasn’t happy when you forced him to hide in the large grass. 

As a surprise, your division was given a training course with color-coordinated powder pellets and painted rubber blades as ammo. The goal was to find and strike as many painted targets in the forest, with you and the other soldiers included as targets. 

In addition to the stationary targets, it meant that you had to look out for other soldiers to target you for points. Fair enough, but while the instructions were straightforward, the one who devised this course was the Duke Vanrouge. 

“I don’t trust a single thing that old fart comes up with.” You mumbled as you surveyed the scene. You expected traps, decoys, even surprise bears to jump up out of the blue, because anything is possible with the eccentric former general. 

Then, a rustle from afar. 

Before you could react, Sebek was quicker as he wrapped his arm from behind you, pushing you down with him as a pellet burst with colored powder above you. You heard cursing and more rustling from a close distance. 

“Watch your surroundings, human!” Your green-haired yelled at you, as he effortlessly pulled you to your feet. The way he scanned your person, you almost made the mistake to think he was worried about you and you almost felt warm over that non-existent concern. 

Both of you perked up to the sound of footsteps and turned to another pair of soldiers in front of you. To your luck, there were some of the soldiers that often taunted you. 

“Hah, it’s the halfling and the leech.” The soldier sneered and started to run towards the two of you, using the course as an excuse for violence. 

“Hmph, you’re no match for me.” But before Sebek could charge, you pulled him back with all your strength. It causes the tall soldier to stumble back and lean onto you, your hands on his chest and waist. You didn’t take notice, but Sebek felt a startlingly warm sensation with his heightened senses feeling your closeness to his sturdy figure, his skin burning where your hands lay flat on him.

“W-What are you doing, human! How dare you-“ 

Yells interrupted Sebek’s embarrassed tirade as the two foolish soldiers disappeared, with a large hole in front of you and Sebek. Cautiously, you stepped towards the manmade hole to see your “comrades,” bruised but alive for the most part. 

“Pit traps… should have known that the commander would pull some looney tune crap.” Pulling out a few pellets, you threw it straight at the trapped men and dusted them with your color. “Man, that’s cathartic.” 

You turned to your partner, who was staring at the pit which he nearly ran straight into. You were worried that the prideful half-fae was actually scared before he scared you instead with revigored energy. 

“Of course, the great Lilia would challenge us to the fullest. I will not fail his faith in us!” He then sharply looked to you with a satisfied smirk. “Impressive, human. I commend your sharp eye, but I will not fall for such traps from now on!” 

“Pfft, what was I thinking he’d be scared?” You thought, chuckling to yourself. It just wasn’t Sebek to back out of a challenge regardless of how insane or stupid it was. This training course was no better than a paintball game, but the straightforward Sebek would give his all no matter what. 

“It’s almost cute.” Keeping that last tidbit to yourself, you started walking towards your partner. “Well, let’s keep going. Like you said, we’re wasting time.” 

[thesuperiorrobin]

Potential love troups? With a twist?

Friends to lovers ~

A classic love between two best friends as they try to hide their feelings for one another afraid it might ruin their friendship. Damian is brutal when he tries to hide his feelings—and sometimes wonder why you’re still friends with him. He falls in love with you because you understand him and aren’t friends with him because of who his father is. You fall in love because he’s a kind person despite being ruthless to everyone else. But to you he won’t return the feelings, will he?

Enemies to lovers~

Another classic expects it’s between the love of two sidekicks. You two fight around the city in the middle of the night while he’s on patrol. He hates how you’re always involved in everything and you hate how he stops you from everything. Won’t be a dull moment between the two when you aren’t throwing punches at each other. Until one day something bad happens and Damian dressed as Robin gets himself into trouble that leaves him bloody and bruised. You saved and cared for him—still keeping his identity a secret. He appreciated it.

Fake relationship~

Rumors going around about Damian dating this woman whom he does not like— so to steer clear from the news headlines he asked you, his long-term friend, to be in a fake relationship to get out of it. It works, but now the headlines are about you two, so you two play along for a few more months. Everything was fake. The dates that you purposely planned to get caught. But we’re the kisses fake too?

Forced marriage~

A marriage planned by your parents and his mother. Damian’s older now and now leads the League of Assassins with the burden on his back. You aren’t important to the league — and your only purpose is to give the Al Ghuls another heir after Damian. So you stand in the shadows, behind your husband everywhere he goes. Damian Al Ghul is a brutal man outside those doors, yelling at the people below him to work harder, a brutal man on missions he’s assigned. But behind closed doors, he’s a gentleman, towards you that is. A part of him pitty’s you. You didn’t ask to be married to a man like him. But you reassured him countless times you don’t mind it. A heavyweight leaves your shoulders when he promises to keep you safe. Maybe this forced marriage won’t be bad after all.

Soulmates/Best friends to lovers

An AU of mine where both you and Damian were married 100 years ago, so in love it made everyone jealous. You two were soulmates in another life, but that life was cut short after your lives were taken away from you. Now your souls are reincarnation to today's world. The world where you too are not a couple but rather best friends. There was some sort of connection when you two met and you instantly clicked. But you both have a small feeling you two should be something more than friends. “You think we were best friends in our past lives?” “I highly doubt that…”

Secret dating!

Can go both ways! You’re dating Robin, the vigilant sidekick that rides alongside the Dark night of Gotham. Ideally, you keep it a secret. For everyone—that includes Batman himself (but he knows) for many reasons the main one being He’s afraid of losing you. Some so many people want him and Batman dead and if they found out about you, you were as good as dead too.

Or

You’re dating Damian. You two agreed on keeping it private. Paparazzi doesn’t know what boundaries are in the world and Damian wanted to protect you from them. That was his main goal—that and keeping you a secret from his family. They’re embarrassing, to say the least, and if they found out about you he would never hear the end of it. Although Alfred already knows who you are.

[the-moon-files]

Aaaaa yay, you updated for Linked Universe again! 🙏 And right when the hyperfixation was coming back for me, too 👀 

I was looking over your posts for LU, and if you don’t mind, I’d love to share some of my own random thoughts with you! I hope that’s okay 👉👈

After I read your “Humans aren't just round-eared Hylians?” post I have had,, many thoughts 👀 One random difference between humans and Hylians I thought about was the possibilities of varying strength,,, You briefly mentioned how Hylians seemed lighter than they seemed to Guide!Reader, and let me tell you, it was such a small detail, but I was transFIXED. I have this image of humans/Guide!Reader just being naturally stronger than the average Hylians - and it made me think of scenarios of the Reader just effortlessly hauling around two Links on their shoulders like sacks of potatoes- And them also picking up things that are supposed to be really heavy with ease! Like, Four would make a longsword, and Reader picks it up out of curiosity, expecting it to be really heavy, but it’s actually not that bad?? (Four in the background: 🧍)

If the Reader is already pretty strong (and maybe even has a profession in fighting, like a boxer or something,, [I might be projecting slightly—]), then ooo 👀 I can see there being this one time where a bunch of monsters ambush the Chain, and as everyone is fighting with the Reader giving them advice and whatnot, a Lizalfos managed to slip past everyone and sprint towards the Reader to attack them. The others are panicking because they won’t be able to reach the monster in time, but just as the Lizalfos raised its sword, one single punch from the Reader sent it flying back into the fray, knocking it into a Moblin. Reader is just standing there with their fist still in the air like “👁️👄👁️ h u h … whY ARE YOU GUYS STARING, YOU’RE STILL FIGHTING—”

In your newest post about the Guide!Reader’s voice, you mentioned how some entities could hear them, and I don’t know if he would, but I think it’d be kinda funny if Ganon and all of his other reincarnations could hear the Reader talking to Link- I’m not sure if he remembers his past lives, but if he does and hears/recognises Reader’s voice, I love the image of him thinking “Oh god, THIS guy again??” Because Reader WILL clown on him-

Dehydrated Ganondorf: *insert evil monologue here*

Guide!Reader: Uh-huh, sure, bold words for someone whose skin looks like a prehistoric riverbed. :|

Sage: *w he eze*

As I was writing all this, I had to think to myself, “Huh,, Guide!Reader doesn’t die when they fall into lava, aren’t really affected by harsher temperatures and winds, and also can swim against strong currents. They’re environment-resistant basically. But there’s bound to be at least one weakness to it all, right?” I did come up with said weakness, and I think it’s kinda basic, BUT one idea I had was that because Guide!Reader is so resistant to the natural elements of Hyrule, they are conversely quite weak to unnatural causes in turn. If they get injured, say they get cut with a knife by a Bokoblin, then that wound would take much longer to heal than it should. Any injuries that the Reader sustains in Hyrule are harder to heal (which I feel like could make some interesting angst,, 👀); their injuries would take more magic to completely heal them, or have more healing potions to drink. I also thought of the Reader being very vulnerable to any sort of poison- Like, if they get a pinch or two (or three) of strong poison in their system, they get knocked out for like two days 💀 

So basically, Guide!Reader is very resistant to the environment, possibly quite strong, but does not have any good constitution,,

[On another note, maybe it’s just a me thing, but I personally love the thought of Wind looking up to the Reader as like a big brother figure,,]

And also!! Happy birthday!! 🥳🥳🎉 As a way of procrastination, I’ve been compiling memes with Guide!Reader and the Chain because the brain rot is hitting HARD,, I can share it with you in the future if you like! /gen /pos And sorry if this is such a long post dkjfgndf-

NOT SOMEONE BEING HAPPY I UPDATED UwU

ur ideas, ur compliments, ur bday wishes, etc. hitting me like^^

Sun: Masc!Reader (he/him) this will be default unless ppl specify otherwise! , Guide!Reader, Boxer/Martial Artist!Reader

Orbit: Headcanons-ish

Stars: Most Links of the Chain mentioned + Sage (Totk Link)! No focus/centric Link

Comets & Meteors: Content Warnings: light cussing, & Trigger Warnings: none known.

Please comment if I missed any. /gen

In reference to This Post! Wait, Humans Aren’t just Round-Eared Hylians??

YOUR BRAIN>>>????!!!

This was such a yummy treat tysm for this, sharing is caring 🫶

I absolutely think Humans could be 10x stronger than Hylians, I mean if we base everything abt their universe off of Link weighing ~8 apples lmao

that means swords, armor, broadswords/claymores, battle axes, huge shields, if those weigh abt like fake swords/wooden ones back on earth to us, then i cant even imagine what canons/horses/tree trunks/boulders weigh 💀

like props on a stage weight rather than the real thing lmao

No but how many Links can you fit in one carry??

ok u got a heavier Link on your back, like Time, Twi or Wars, then Four/Wind/Hyrule/Legend (yes he’s light/smaller side, tho he may deny) in ur arms like one Link per arm, maybe 3 Links if you can like wrap ur arms around them

so like 4 Links total? well, Wind or Four r so light/small one could possibly ride on ur shoulders, so 5 LMAO??? that's like half the Chain already AHALJFAfJLL-

on another note,

I LOVEEE ganon being able to hear Guide Reader bc spent too long around them, also i originally based that off of characters who’ve shown they're meta/highly magical kinda (esp the meta part where they may have directly addressed players/broke 4th wall)

No bc Ganon would just be SO fed up by like, Wild’s time, it would literally be EXACTLY like what u said I’d imagine:

(u just playing the game and not realizing until later they can hear you)

Ganon: “ugh that blonde twink again, god when will this plan actually work-?!”

You: “eyyy, Ganon! omg, why’s he?? Hot??? damn, botw best ganon version fr”

Ganon: “you know what maybe you should just kill me right now, hero Link.”

(the thought of Ganon never being able to escape ur voice whenever Link was near him bc u didnt have a body to fight/kill, and instead he just had to deal with ur comments is SENDING ME)

changing subjects again sorry

YES!! that's the weakness/drawback I was thinking abt for Humans in Hyrule, while yes their environment isn't that effective on us, (i like to use “inside a video game” as the reason bc i think its neat)

humans are notoriously fragile in our own world already - we get sick, we get acid-reflux/throw up from bad food/food poisoning, etc.

so it makes sense we’d be more sensitive to this new environment, but even if we got adjusted,

we’re more external-proof, not internal-proof

(u know that's another reason why it works for Hylians and not Humans, we aren’t automatically healed by food, but their world does, and even in botw/totk when u have “dubious” food, its never inedible, its just useless to eat, so technically Hylians can kind of eat most anything off of that logic, like there is no such thing as “bad food” for them)

and u could take this either way tbh,

like we’re either entirely resistant to magic/dont take to it well bc our world didnt have it so potions/fairies don't work and we have to heal naturally

or just yeah, its like ur in a new country tbh, new germs/nature/food/etc. and u def cant guarantee u wont get a little sick from that

this would definitely include genuine poison!

bro the amount of WORRY the Links would feel after realizing the human guide guy who’s physically here now can barely handle their food??

Wild’s making a thorough list of what foods work for you and what don't, like safe foods to go back on, including recipes,

the way Time/Wars would absolutely be willing to take little detours/stop by towns more to make sure you have the right food you can eat,

and even tho Wild’s cooking, Sage is constantly testing for poison, like the dish itself, the herbs/plants, every ingredient needs to be extra safe even by Hylian standards (like not eating adventurous stuff like pufferfish or smth that could possibly have poison if cooked wrong/not enough etc)

that is to say, even if Wild makes a new recipe/other meal, he always has a backup safe meal to give you instead on those nights, and just way too many in general (yes he knows it doesn't buff ur health but he cant help his Hylians instincts to stuff the hurt person’s face with food ok??)

Hyrule! Is!! Losing!!! It!!!!

he has all the healing magic in the world and the one man he wants to help the most, for keeping him from being lonely on his adventure/looking out for him/being on his side no matter what, now he finds out he can’t even help them??

mans would literally keep trying to heal u til he’s drained it all out to just try and get the wound to close, if u didnt stop him

U get injured for the first time, and while a bruise/cut taking weeks to heal (depending on how bad) is normal to you, Hyrule + lowkey everyone is Freaking Out

Wounds DO NOT take weeks to heal?? They take hours at most??? Dude, are you dying-

(Wind got elbowed for that one, purely bc he voiced Sky/Hyrule/Wild/Twi paranoia out loud lol)

that is going with the version ur mostly unaffected by magic, but u could also do the human thing where we get adjusted to things over time (at least more than nothing), including food/sickness

The way All the Links just surround you or outright don’t let you come into crowded parts of town so ur poor immune system wont make u sick again 😭

on the bright side they'd all get rlly good at preventative measures like this, and taking care of sick you lol

(yes, u bribed Wind to get little bro cuddles when ur sick, it wasn't hard, he sees u as the most genuine bigger bro probably bc ur likely hte most affectionate out of all the Links)

(should I get into cultural differences between humans/hylians like humans being more openly cuddly/affectionate? like how in humans are space orcs fandom they acknowledge its unusual for us to “packbond” so easily to so many different species? and how this could possibly apply to not only Hylians but any Friend-shaped creatures across the Hyrules?? ..nah. I’ll save that for another post)

AND YES!! feel free to shoot rambles/thoughts/not even requests my way! Id love to talk abt it or just post it for the world to marvel at too lol

ohh mY God;; YOU HAVE MEMES FOR THIS?? PLEASEEEE SHOW ME????

thank you for this, srsly /pos

Peace out,

🌙

[amarylliasky]

Number 19!

Au: Daffodils and the Meaning Of

- A modern au where everyone except Choi Han reincarnates into modern Roan. (Though, Choi Han will be there, and you’ll see how/why)

- Choi Han becomes some sort of divine entity(idk what. He could be a wanderer or a god), and then in order to get the chance to meet his new family again, he gives it up. As well as his memories, which can only be unlocked when he achieves merits equal to his transgressions that stripped him of his authority in the first place. (Kinda like lsh, except he doesn’t reincarnate, rather, he’s just sent to that world kinda like tboah.

- Choi Jung Soo, on the other hand, does reincarnate along with everyone else. He makes a deal with someone (I don’t know maybe the god of death?) in order for him to be able to reincarnate.

- No one else remembers their past life. Not even Cale.

- Speaking of Cale, he is still our same Og!Kim Rok Soo/Cale. As for Og!Cale/Kim Rok Soo, I’m gonna go with him being reincarnated with his mother and team members in another dimension. So, sadly no Og!Cale in this au:(

- Kim Rok Soo grows up with almost the same past. With his parents dying, then being taken in by his uncle, then being put into an orphanage. The difference is that this time, he’s only in the orphanage for a few months before Deruth and Violan adopt him.

- Kim Rok Soo, or Cale Henituse, was taken from the hospital as a baby, then found and taken in by Kim Rok Soo’s previous parents.

- By the time Cale is found by Deruth, he is already in the orphanage, and Deruth has already married Violan and had a child. So Basen and Lily are already there by the time he comes to live with them.

- Once he is adopted, he throws away his name as Kim Rok Soo and decides to live as Cale Henituse, much like he did in Canon.

- After that, he is homeschooled for a while, just enough to get used to his new life, then goes to Huiss Academy along with a whole bunch of other characters from totcf.

- Choi Han and Cale meet in a café as seen in my latest drabble. Although neither of them remember each other, Cale feels the unexplainable urge to go talk to him. Choi Han is wary of this red haired stranger, but he also doesn’t want to be rude and it’s not like he has the money to buy himself food or a drink.

- After that, Cale takes Choi Han home with him to his family’s penthouse apartment(stranger danger). He lives in it alone, with only Ron and Beacrox residing in his house most of the time in order to serve him. It goes about as well as you’d imagine.

- Speaking of which, the Molan duo do have their own house in the capital city, they’re just over at Cale’s penthouse most of the time since they are still employed by the Henituse’s and have served Cale since he was adopted.

- Onto other topics!

- Henituse Industries is a company that deals in technology. Kind of like Stark Industries. They also have a wine business on the side. I just feel like I could see his Family owning a tech company. It would certainly help his future looting sprees.

- Zed Crossman is the head of Crossman Conglomerate, the largest mega-corporation in Roan. I considered Zed being the President of Roan, but I don’t think Alberu would be able to be so involved in the plot if he were the President’s kid. Plus, the succession battle between the “Prince’s.”

- Alberu still dyes his hair to blonde, but he’s not a quarter dark elf. It’s more of a stylistic choice to help him fit with his image.

- If I went over every noble house in modern times, I think I would be here for a while, so those are the only ones I’m going to mention for now.

- So during his school years, Cale stays in their penthouse, a.k.a. their mansion in Huiss city. This is the city where everything in school is going to go down.

- Let’s get into some more characters!

- So for Choi Han, Cale lets him stay in his penthouse and eventually helps him enroll in the same Academy. Eventually, Cale will finally meet Choi Jung Soo and Lee Soo Hyuk, and will eventually connect the two Chois. That will happen much later and much different than in canon. So yeah, he basically meets Lsh and Cjs after he meets a lot of the other characters, as opposed to before.

- Roslayn! She’s a transfer student from Breck, a country neighboring Roan. She came to learn more about the culture, particularly about Roan’s deep history.

- Lock is a freshman at Huiss academy. He won a scholarship and is staying in a dorm while the rest of his family is still in his hometown.

- Overtime I’ll be introducing more and more characters either in the school or somewhere in the city. I wouldn’t say that this is a “high school au” per se, but it’s kinda a modern au with high school elements.

- You know what time it is folks! The kids averaging x years old!

- Raon is the son Huiss Academy’s Headmaster, Sherrit.

- As for On and Hong, they live with their parents as of now. I can’t decide whether I want to kill off their parents or not.

- I also can’t decide whether or not I want Cale and the children to have more of a parent/child relationship or a sibling relationship. For this au, Cale is still in high school so it wouldn’t really make much sense for it to be parental.

- For Eruhaben, he is the chemistry professor at Huiss Academy.

- He can see that Cale doesn’t seem to interact with anybody at the Academy and tries to talk to him a bit. He doesn’t know why he’s so intrigued by this child, but something just tells him that the kid is special.

- So yes, as in everything I will write between them two, they will have a father/son relationship. Especially considering Cale hasn’t really known Deruth and Violan for very long and he’s not really sure how to act around them.

- Another thing I wanted to kind of explore was the relationship between him and the other “dragons.” I feel like I want Mila to be a sort of mother figure for him since Cale hasn’t really had a mother either. That being said, I also feel like Sherrit would be a good mother figure for him despite “his kid” also being her son…..so if I did go him and the children being kind of siblings in this au, I guess that’ll make perfect sense.

- Anyway, this is getting pretty long, so I’ll stop it here.

[skagheart]

Born to Die

hey, so, basically, i was writing this fanfiction called born to die based upon kurt cobain and an original character called nirvana lacey anhedönia and, well, i never finished it and i think i’ve lost the inspiration to. but, i still want it to see the light of day because i think it’s beautiful (sort of). so, here we are.

Gibson Girl.

1480 words.

July 6, 1981.

Aberdeen.

Washington.

[ You wanna… ]

Lovelace.

That’s what I’m fucking carving into my arm. With that oh-so-American size of the knife, the cut was deep and my handwriting as unhinged as it could be, probably and possibly worse than the cruel (upon me!) variety of forms it takes; like it was in my journal (I’ve always adored the copulation of the words probably and possibly as it tends so well to my seeming lack of sincerity and existential confusion), but worse, worse. Tingling all over I was in not an aroused, sexual way—but in the way it tingles when the high becomes scary, when the swirly faces start to scratch at you and when your belly feels scarily pregnant (everyone whom I know wants children; I wonder, am I sociopathic or a prophetess? Probably both, they’re primarily synonymous anyway). I knew so damnéd well I was addicted to this shit, the little, translucent, hallucinatory blotters (I prefer ’em trippy on both the outside and in, and pink; but I’m an addict! I’ll take whatever anyways) I get by shaking my ass to the guy whose name I do not wish to have my married brain clouded with. He still cut into my head like the knife that was working with all it’s effort and my inputs carving that v on my plump, ripe forearm. I was addicted as fuck; and I fucking loved it. At the very fucking least, I was pumping out poems like a heroine of the fifties. It’s what it was: the fifties had Sylvia Plath and the eighties had me. Downright iconic. The blood by now—I felt like a lamb, but I knew I was the dragon—was flooding my lap on which that forearm of mine was settled. I apologise if my writing, grammer, thoughts, anything else is fucked up in this or don’t make sense—I’m drugged up into Cloud Nineteen (ten blotters, two packs of Marlboro Reds over this evening).

I know I sound fucking insane and I probably am, and I treat myself to pain Virgin Mary couldn’t have dreamt off—but, I promise I’m not mean. Just a hard, excessive exterior and a tight, eager posterior in this dollhood of mine. Does that even make sense…? I don’t fucking know shit… “Ah, fuck…” I whispered with the most disappointing one I could muster when I fucked up the second l of Lovelace.

Lovelace, Lovelace… Great, I have to recall him.

The fucker who got me into this.

Norwegian trucker in India who was friends with my greaser pa, Norman Anhedönia, called Gibson Lovelace. The chap had forty years worth of oxygen wasted in his shallow breathing (he always breathed shallow, even when he came; I had noticed), a nine-incher monster of a dick, pedophilia, a drunkard wife and an obsession with me. I’d always been what Nabokovian terms would term nymphet, and I do say I’m split on it. I’m a shit daughter and a demon child, or am I? Maybe I’m just depressed and suicidal, or I’m fucking divine and the reincarnation of Eve meant to meet her Adam through a senseless act of violence upon myself (I didn’t know at the time, but I was fucking foreshadowing; go me.). Every girl needs a senseless act of violence properly upon herself but rarely upon the other to discover her one and only cult leader.

Anywho, Gibson led me into his truck away from my father who was too busy cleaning his shades listening to Elvis on the records: January of ’77, I was seven going to turn eight in the November of that year. He fucked me raw, smashed my head so hard into the steering wheel that I bled (I was questioning too much), kissed my cuts and made me promise I wouldn’t pick up a knife again but didn’t do shit about what I actually felt; he told me to stick my tongue out and placed this thin translucent sheet of pink from a little booklet he kept in his glovebox. And I decided that I loved it. I’m at fault, I’m at fault… Fuck Waheguru.

I’m finished. I squeezed my arm as hard as I could, the blood spraying over the marble floor (I had tucked the rug away; I can’t let Mumma see). My incisors with the utmost force to keep my vocal chords at bay dug into my chapped bottom lip and drew blood there too. It trickled down to my chin and came to nirvana at my lap resting amongst the other red molecules; it left a ferric taste on the tip of my tongue, slightly bitter and quite sweet. Bittersweet. Blood, blood, blood, blood, blood… Blood, everywhere. Gibson would’ve rubbed it all over my nipples and told me to lick it up like it was his sperm all over my asscheeks or, well, just cheeks. I did have quite big tits for an almost twelve-year-old, I must admit… I’ve always had more estrogen and my estrogen was also more sensitive: susceptible. Susceptible to manipulation, fuckery, religion, what not… Finally, I could fucking feel something except for the stimuli of my g-spot and the irritation in my nostrils that still blossomed when I chainsmoked indoors or that itching feeling in me when I go too much time without my LSD. I have this delusion that I only pump men good or pump out good stuff when I’m pumped on those little squares: He said that LSD would be good for me when I told him that I write; I’ve been pumpin’ poetry for my baby ever since. I hate children, and I sincerely wish that all babies die alongside their parents and the doctors and the nurses and the medical’s parents and me…

My disorders kicked in (Borderline Personality Disorder, majorly untreated) and I fucking panicked. After so much shit, I fucking panicked. Panicked. Jumping up almost to slam my head to the sink I was cutting up like ham under, I had to hold onto the sink to make myself stand actually. I slowly experienced my hand creep up to switch on the faucet (like Gibby did to the faucet in my eyes everytime he crossed my neurocircuitry) and my other arm (I’m right-handed) creep to wash the blood from Lovelace off. Thankfully, I had a few bottles of peroxide, a pack of Reds, a babydoll dress all set up, razor and men’s shaving cream, my skincare, makeup—all of that set up, and the shower prepped as well. Today, I was to die.

The same year as Gibson’s arrival to me, I spiralled and ended up flinging my curvy body down the roof of some pretentious hotel in Seattle. I didn’t die, unfortunately. Then, well, I was transferred to a crazy people place for four years until I got out in March of ’81 (this year!) equally, if not more, fucked up. I had glowed so much surrounded by my little hellspawns, my creatures... My paradise is dying in the arms of nobody. But, I couldn’t care when the blotters kicked in and helped my cerebrum in distorting so fucking shittily my face into some eldritch horror that passed the likes of werewolves mid-transformation and golems. I giggled manically at the twistings of my eyes into the hair and my ears into halo, my mouth stretched through the giggle was transmuted to the petrified image of a dog and a lady and what fucking not. Oh, I need my pen… Pen, pen, pen, pen,... pen!

The lad

I tried to write into the journal page I had kept open on the small settee of my bathroom that I had also made sure to drip some of my essence onto (not like that, pervs; the blood, I’m saying) but my mouth wouldn’t co-operate with my cerebellum or my cerebrum. The giggles just wouldn’t stop and they just got more and more distorted like guitars fitted into amps and amps and shredding. I fell back on the ground, it cushioned by my ass, and held my head in my arms, shaking my head as if to curate outside of my all the fogginess and to shake out of my trip. I wanted to write, write! Not whatever the fuck this was. My eyes were squeezed so hard, I was crying. And, I couldn’t fucking stop laughing like a shitshow.

“Oh, God, stop, stop, stop, just fucking stop…!” Hadn’t even realised I was sobbing but in that moment that epiphany hit me like a freight train (whatever the fuck a freight train is; I just picked up on the writing tool from whatever I read using this). My arm was still bleeding, smearing blood over my cheeks; my lip was still cut from my teeth, bleeding the smaller bits too; I was shaking like a fucking banyan leaf in the rainstorms of Wash.

• • •

Strangers.

5010 words.

July 6, 1981.

Aberdeen.

Washington.

[ Don’t talk to strangers, or you might fall in love ]

Even the isolation, deprave, and mesophilia of our fucked-up, Lacey, crazies hospital was better than this drenched, little town. What was better than any of those two fucking disasters, though, was my stance on the railway tracks. Sittin’ there like teke-teke, waitin’ for my gorgeous guts to be smashed over, destroyed, violated, clawed out by the grinders of the train. I’d never seen starry nights—the ladies at Lacey would never have enough testicles to let me watch a shooting star and hope that it crash into me, the fuckin’ meteorite. My years at Cawnpore already were quite less in number, and it eternally was too polluted for us to see something more than the dhruv star and a few other killers; I’d never seen starry nights. According to this astronomical magazine I picked up while the nurses took us out to the local stores of Lacey for us teenage girls to detoxify our battlefields for minds, today was a meteor shower and I was thoroughly intrigued by blazing space rocks in the skies, so I bluffed and fucked my way out of the hospital. My egg and sperm donors did not believe for a major nanosecond that I was cured. At two years of pained age, I was standing in the middle of the gray-like-me roads, conscious of the act; at four, I burnt my pierced earlobe on purpose, using the steam-fuelled iron to; at six, any blade I pranced upon would find it’s metallic way to scent the room in the aroma of my equally metally blood, I only wished for one to kiss those marks and draw about them, to be what the lyre was to Apollo; at eight, this curvy brain of mine finally snapped into her hemispheres and told me to fling my curvy body down the highest story of our hotel. At eight, my suppliers abandoned their Catholic mistake of a dolly into a mental hospital in my Americana birthplace, Lacey.

There, I morphed myself like the blesséd Phoenix, curse, profanity I am into The Mother. Mother Lace, Mother Nirvana, Messiah of thee, and the literary combo of Three. One of the only times I shall ever cherish are my years with those six girls… My girls: my loves, only ones who would ever succeed in enveloping me with so much heat that the outward exterior, the exoskeleton of middle fingers and catty hisses, melts into a puddle of rot beneath me and the inner delicacy of my wretched fragility and mortality is on display for all those mental fuckers to eat.

Needless to say…, I missed my bundle of little women, my packets of compressed, oppressed joy. So, I lay there longing with my arms stretched onward craving hiraeth in the Heavens—now that I look back, it never was hiraeth. I knew exactly what my home was: the browned mental hospital where I spent four formative years of my Jim Morrison's life in. I longed for the hug of my collected daughters, their soft digits brushing my hair as they softly inquired escape from the hellhole I promised to save them from. My girls... I loved them, like the mother they never received. I had promised, I had promised… I was a betrayer. What mother to those girls…

On instinct I experienced my hands reach to the crown of my head, relief coursing through my blood the moment a thorn stung me. Their entity had crafted for me a crown of thorns to relish me as their Lady and Saviour. I did feel blood seep from the pinch, but I stuck my finger between my lips and thrashed my tongue around, gazing at the dying glows of the starry night.

I pretended to be Jesus.

I am Judas, or am I?

I don’t even know what I’m writing. You’re hallucinating while interpreting strange symbols written left-to-right in lead and antimony compounds upon thin, delicate tablet-like structures made of tree sap, so I guess we two are never too far apart in our crazy.

Well, to them (my girls: Laine Jean Ray, Bonita Ana Dios, Aurora May-Belle Long, Theresa Midge Check, Verbena de Baïa Voisin, Margaret Sarah Check), I still remain Yeshua. Yet, I feel a wolf in lamb’s skin as myself; a panther in the throes of the night sky that I stare emptily, tearily, upon. I fake it so real, I am beyond fake (translation: you people are fucking dumb).

In my convulsing tubule of thoughts birthed by my cerebral quality, I failed in my life to notice movement, possibly a metre from me. I was laid over the railway track like a corpse, eyes empty yet body warm for no reason at all. It truly seems bizarre how the movement noticed me neither—maybe dissolved so much in the grief were they that they were as heady as me, as crazy as I! Trapped inside the fever dream of their own thoughts, vowed to never spit it out, bit tongues and summertimes spent in clawing bedsheets and clamping hands over the own lips so as to refrain from the awareness that might spread. That might say…: I am iron. I am usable, extremely so. Exploit me, as if you have not already. Though, I might have not warneth thou… I rot as vigorously as I am used, keep me out in the world and I will break down and become ash of myself. In the velvet night, a puff of air as a sigh crawled out of me, liquid dripping down the corneas of I, ruining not the night (this was to be, I planned to die today for fuck’s sake) but my precious mascara and eyeliner. Oh, how I worked on that lining to accentuate my inherited, unwanted, auto-appreciated felinity. I’d be the prettiest girl in the morgue.

Someday you will ache like I ache.

Anyhow, the shower from the atmosphere had concluded a few minutes prior. And, well, finally, the train I was waiting for to scramble and crumble my guts into nothing but wasted potential, like I already was, had arrived… Only, it arrived wrong. It ran over the steel beside me, beside us (counting in the movement I am). A severe monsoon bummer filled my chest, the void in my heart had been concealed tightly and packed with Lyssa, Eris, what not. I craved to screech at the tyrant Father for his sin, for his fucking disruptive mercy on me—I did not want mercy! I needed death to fuck me like his personal, unpaid, loyal servant-girl; I needed it violent! So, as soon as all registered in my voluminous cerebrum, I recoiled in my pose, resorting to the protection of a foetal position as I screamed out my sobs and muffled them by staining my shaved thighs with my lipstick and drool smelling of minty chew-gum that I chewed last minute, tears of brown-black from my mascara and liner, hitting my head against my knees and punching the bloody rails that I was once moonbathing over until I experienced my knuckles burn and bruise, actual slivers of blood peek through the skin. I continued then too, but was too passionate in my quiet wailing to keep up the aggression.

And, thence, I swiped my tears with my bleeding knuckles, unrealising in my little girl’s misery of the fact, and smeared blood over my eyes and mascara over my blood. By some distance, I could hear some twigs crunching, maybe it was the movement I hadn’t noticed beforehand. When I did notice in that current moment, fear struck my gut like Cupid’s arrow when I had seen Priscilla Presley for the first time in forever. Naturally, a response occurred within the fatty mass of electric muscle in my head and I recoiled within myself, burying my face in my knees that I had pulled to my tits, only my eyes blinking up like a defensing cat—if I had been a cat, my pupils would have shrunken to that reptilian, creepy glare. I saw that the thing was lighting a cigarette, my cravings relit alongside (the appearance of the thing was half-revealed in the dim spark).

Stupidly as I ever could be, I murmured from my coil, “Do you have a light?” However softly I did speak, the boy did hear because it was the death of the night in wherever we were, the railroad was as quiet as could be with the crickets around chirping and inaudible bats may or may not be sauntering about. Dim moonlight that I somedays worshipped (as a witch, I did) proved herself, and I saw him. The first predicament was that he’s cute: blond, ice eyes, hopeless swagger, shaky legs. He paused himself in his trek, and slowly but mildly clumsily, turned to see my form. Perhaps cold moonlight proved her importance to hallucinatory pages of dead sap’s inkéd words of feel-good love. Wow, fuck, I went overboard on there. So, he scrutinised me for a moment, squinting to gaze at me carefully.

I’ll never forget what came out of my future husband’s mouth the first time he spoke a single thing to me…: You look very pretty when you’re crying; tears suit you. I don’t think that I can emphasise the moan that was nearly to escape me at that very moment, it was a shockwave of whatever down my spine to my ladyness. My knees dropped to become flat, just legs, and I did acknowledge the gashes in my doll heart bleeding so vigorously, it matched my swallowed drool.

“You don’t mean that, you’re drunk.”

His honeyed voice, sort of scratchy as I observed he was pubescent and hormonal in his blue jeans, white striped shirt—walked into the room, you know you made my eyes burn!—and black-y jacket he kept open, pushed me to experience the yayo-type, giggly joy of his chuckle, he shook his head in amuséd denial of his drunkenness. He was poetic, he had a slur, he had his thin lips wrapped around a cigarette—shit, I needed them wrapped around mine… And, I loved it. Why the fuck was I enamoured? “You’re a hypocrite,” He paused for a moment, maintaining that smile. Two distinct holes, punctures in muscle, were noticed by thee truly, myself, at that very moment; I felt my ribcaged heart palpitate. “You’re bawling your eyes out here like Virgin Mary.”

“Oh, fuck me, that’s beautiful.” The moan that was slowly and gradually, steadily and irresistibly, mountaineering up my throat finally escaped in the form of this: *Oh, fuck me, that’s beautiful*. Which, I did mean—how could I not mean *this*? I’m not Lisa Rowe, you buzz (although I wish to be—have you not read the sheer charisma produced from the description Kaysen emits of her? She was definitely the prettiest girl in the morgue!).

Hands of his extended to mine, both, and I took them, shakingly wobbling from my psych-out. I felt drunk. As terror-inducin’ it seems, drugs had exhilarated me, no cock of a man who had money this nymphet had onlooked had been left out, I was such a La Lolita for my crazy desires—but I had never had a swig before. Smelling the booze off my falling, twisted guy as he pulled me up from my literal and mental death—I only knew that my heart was hitting at my sinews, she felt a depraved wanderlust. Some wanderlust it was to, like a man in a Prime Minister pose, mark that free, angel Earth mine with maybe a flag (a tattoo) or a hole (a lovebite), something, somewhat. I held onto his shoulders for both metaphorical and literal support, he held onto the curve of the lower back I possessed, though the fabric of his jackie didn’t benefit friction and he kept slipping his arm off accidentally because, one, he adorned too much weight on; two, the fabircs intermingled like our forms, the cheap satin and whatever the fuck his jacket was made of. “Why am I a hypocrite, though?” I finally asked this little blond dude what had been pestering me (I am not to blame for this worthy-of-disdain obsessiveness, I have Borderline Personality Disorder. I am Cool Girl: I am nothing in my soul if not obsessive) for how millennium long. His ocean eyes matched mine for a moment, and he seemed to think through for a momento before he permitted the giggle of a hyena break out of him: Because you’re pretty when you cry, and I’m not.

“Yes, you are.” No hesitation was laced through me, none of that unaware uncertainty that I usually experienced leaking through my tune when I comforted one of my girls—my girls...—and instead was there an ignorant stubbornness. I was always stubborn, but what the fuck? I, having registered in my still plush cerebrum that my crown of thorns (gifted to me by Laine specifically, although all the girls worked on it) had fallen like my Lucifer when I had risen, thence I bent to grab my status, injuring my already injured hand thus further as the thorns pierced and pricked into my skin. And, I didn’t even cry…

He recoiled almost physically at my olden compliment (remember the first dialogue of the previous paragraphed rambling?) and I was due a breakdown of my psyche in that very singular fraction of a minute when my man suddenly perked up, “I only have this cig,”, changing the subject. Yahweh, my knuckles burnt. I ohed a tiny bit, and chuckled, extending one of my quivering, weak limbs and bending to wrap my lipstickéd lips on the ass of that cigarette, same one he took a drag from not fifteen seconds ago. His Atlantic eyes widened for a twiddling momentous, and, possibly and probably in drunken stupor and marijuana heights of his death wish, he giggled—I physically felt my pupils dilate, what the fuck? Maybe it was the nicotine, maybe it was the aftershocks of my tiny-teeny mental breakdown on the rail, maybe it was hisself… Damn, I think I understood Grant so well in that miniscule moment: Heaven is a place on Earth with you.

The world was built for two.

Delusional, I was convinced that it was us two the moment he grabbed the cigarette from me for his chance, and he examined the matte, messy mark of my lip stamped on it.

With the dumbest smile he could muster in my damnéd opinion, this little, blond, territorial, underdeveloped man adjusted his lips on the exact place I had left my shine, suckling it like it was some part of me. He knew what he was doing, I could pluck it from the glitter in his pretty orbs that told me shit he’d never be able to spit out in our tragic, magic relationship of some thirteen years. We kissed in death like we kissed in that moment, he blew smoke into my mouth and I giggled, almost extracting the alcohol of his from the roof of his mouth as my tongue felt her way around. We parted for perhaps, well, a second (I don’t remember the details, I’m writing this after our wedding sex, 1988. We’re in our flight back to Olympia from Honolulu, and he’s sleeping on my tits), and rejoint as I adjusted the angle to kiss-fuck this virginal Cherub better. “Darling, is this your first?”, he nodded, responsive—to be frank, that was adorable...! I’m pretty sure I squeaked out of sheer kiddy excitement, squeezing the sides of his face (cheeks). My grip migrated to around his neck, form bent for he was teenier than I. I didn’t even know his name and we were kissing in the blue dark…

Parting, I only gazed into his oceanic gaze and breathlessly giggled, “Oh, wow, fuck,... That was…, yeah.” A grand total of seven partners (three females, four males) I had engaged in before this merman, and I had never felt myself stolen of breathe ever in my existence after a mere kiss. Possibly was it the intoxication, the nicotine fucking over my senses so that my taste buds tickled with the enriching experience of his glazed cavern, but was it not thrilling, oh Mary! I had enchanted outward the sweetest giggle, and he in his still stupor snuggled his head inside the curve of my shoulder and chest; he was only that much tall. I was not lanky in any aspect, neither I am still—on the flipside, truth is that my mother repeatedly insisted upon me to not drown in my head and force her to onlook, rather to go outside, soak some tan (I am racially brown, thence I don’t require a tan) and run some. I decline profusely, tangling in blankets again and writing what, if discovered, would have positively filed me into the South Sound Behavioral Hospital yet again for a term not of four years now but of God-knows-how-long.

Eventually, I figured: some other day, this nymph may or may not have only prolonged my life now, and I told myself it. By the railway roads were grasses uncared for (like most daughters were; the human was their mother and the stain’d, tall grasses were the lost), we decided unconsciously to sit by those and talk the dimlight of the night off the clouds, to dawn we conversed. As unbelievable as it may sound considering the turbulence not even Athena might have dreamt of that had plagued the twisty courses of my lifetime, I had not sipped upon the liver eater yet: alcohol! With my newfound darling, that was precisely what I did.

We were dwelling inside uncanny synchronisation with our acts: we looked around at the same time, fixated on the same piece of cement, reached to gasp one another’s hands the same moment. I didn’t flinch, neither did the blond darling. Which..., was quite, well, it was especially choking as I... Usually froze at contact of the physique from someone whom I loved. Around this time, with my drink-induced lover, it felt good.

We curled up by grass, against a gray boulder-like structure, perhaps a part of a rotten or demolished building of some sort, debris. There, I suckled upon the lengthy cancerstick and inquired like an owl: “Why were you here, anyway?” In a casual tone I did, as if it was something so normal that I was nonchalant. “Oh, y’know, to kill myself.” The answer delivered by this sweetness would dwelling in me a day or so afterward (take that very literally) was just as nonchalant, confirming the suspicion conjured by my despaired subconscious that he was just as heady as me, as crazy as me, someone who would rot along me like iron all the while fearing the rot, hiding from something murmuring within thyself and teetering about; aura as a nymphic call and melancholia as the default ring of the mood. GOD is a teenaged girl of grunge and glitter, and I am a doll (soulless, empty, pretty with no matter on the inside yet pretty from the back—it matched!).

“No, no, like, why?” I repeated with an accentuated tone and my regular gestures of hand and eye, “The reason you wanted to kill yourself. I don’t judge, promise.” I shrugged, chuckling a bit as I passed the miniature cancer to him for a drag. “Clearly.” He chuckled too, widening his eyes momentarily to allude to my appearance; as I remember it, that elicited out from me a little giggle. I mean, it was the factual; darling, not lying. A girl; a girl dressed in a pearly babydoll dress with lacy tights (opaque white-like, frilled, a bow on top of each, knee-high) and no footwear with mascara smeared down her face from a clear breakdown of her battlefield for mind, manic brown eyes with a grape-coloured lipstick on pouty heart-shaped lips, blood and dirt also staining her optic area due to her bleeding knuckles from which she punched the steel of the rails because the train did not run over her? Paired alongside the fresh wounds on display littered across that fatty arm of hers? Oh, she was a crazy chick—and I could tell that this little guy loved it. He loved my mania, he loved my blood, he loved my crazy, he loved everything that I loved about myself. Maybe it was his alcohol that urged him this way, but I loved him for he loved what he saw.

But is she pretty on the inside?

“Well,” I spaced back in with the thrill of his voice curling the air around us; I wish we were plunged into steel. Sound travels best in something like steel… What would his voice be in steel? The thought messaged down my spine a shiver. “’s mostly everything about my life. Wouldn’t say I’m addicted, but all I do these days is mope and get high, or drink. I’ve been this since last month. Last year, I saw this… This dead boy who hung himself in the woods. That really affected me, I think; I’ve got suicide genes.” He paused a bit, sighing as he was passed the smokestick again. I puckered up a bit and drew closer to his pretty face, rounding my lips out and pushing out a ring of cigarette smoke. On impulse, he stuck nose through the centre of the dissipating smoke ring which drew from me another giggle—he was just like me! I did that too! I’d never thought someone else would…? What the fuck is going on?

Taking a drag, he then resuméd: “My parents are divorced… I’m really embarrassed of that.” He added a bit hesitantly, I could gauge that he still felt the shame of it all; which perplexed me. A divorce is shameful? How so? It’s a fucking life decision… But, that’s okay because this little one was clearly less mature and emotionally developed than I, although that amount still was remarkable considering his physique and my presumé of his age (which I thought to be elder to me, but still not too much so). “Why?”

“I want my real family back. My dad promised me he wouldn’t remarry, and he fucking did; to a bitch nonetheless. I hate her and her children are so… Phoney…!” Humming at his hurt words, I was analysing him: eyes gliding over the pasty, smooth contours of his vanilla face; staring into the trench of his pupils surrounded by his ocean eyes as he passed back the almost dead cigarette to me. The guard he wore over his exterior again was forming as he read that I was reading him without contempt (he thought I was feeling that, but I was simply analysing him emotionlessly—as if he was a labrat and I was dissecting him to figure out the following: what the fuck is this little shit?). But, I got him before he leaned away or apologised: Don’t worry, go on. Say it. I hate my cousins too. He relaxed yet again, I could see his shoulders come down and he leaned into me again,. Our heads were almost leaning against each other’s, breathes intermixing with each intake and out. “Go on.” I repeated, tapping his knee to accentuate my point.

He snapped out of whatever daze (he was reading me too, perhaps; mentally dissecting my Barbie body too, perhaps) and his hand came to clasp mine. I bit back a giggle and a smile at the contact, he did notice the corner of my lips tilt upward so he took that as a positive for further lacing of his fingers with mine. I, now a bit assured in myself, squeezed his hand and nudged him again: go on.

“Right,” He chuckled, “So, well, I just feel… Alien. You know, when I was little, I used to look at the stars,” He pointed briefly to the stars that were shining above the both of us, “And imagine my real family because I just felt like I wasn’t from here, like I was from another planet. I think I like that feeling, I was homesick for a place that didn’t even exist. And, to be honest, you’re the only other alien I’ve met.” That made me giggle after I muttered hiraeth at the sentence spoken second to the last. I found in my nicotined mindscape that this… Theory, was almost verbatim of a theory I myself had gardened in my meadow for mind. “Y’know…! I felt like that too, still do actually. I just used different terms for it. I called whatever the fuck our species are Earth Angels, angels on Earth. I read somewhere once that a person with scars of cuts on their arms was called an angel by a kid, and I think I really internalised… That.”

He chuckled, “Your mind is divine, Pretty. Yeah, I think my family is also a reason in why… I want to kill myself, y’know?”

“Oh, absolutely. I love them so much so I do what they want and they hate me for every speck of originality; I don’t know if it’s my mental disorders or it’s my hormones, but every small inconvenience makes me wanna kill myself. I’m also a hater! I hate everything and I do nothing to change it which, admittedly, makes me an arsehole—but, fuck it.” We both had laughter crawling up our throats and I could tell it wasn’t actual laughter. Oh, no. It was mania, laughing not because it threatened to spill; laughing because you had nothing else to do. Like crazy people (I do think that I am insane, in some way, shape or form. But, I also think that I’m supersane. Who fucking knows? I think a lot, don’t I?).

The cigarette had gone out by now, I think I had stubbed it out by pressing to the moist ground after he had truly started opening the shells of himself, not wishing to be distracted by drugs when I had the most addictive and healthy sedative offering his lifestory to a little shit like me. “Well, what’s it for you? I haven’t ever seen… You around…” He slurred out as we jumped down from our maniacal, little, episodic bursts of sacrilege or insanity… Well, are they not synonyms?

“Ah, so, I just moved here about a… Maybe a few days ago? I think a week or so. I moved from Lacey, though I’m actually Indian. Well… It’s a fucked-up fairytale, really. My whole ancestry and family is the following: sexist, racist, extremist to Sikhism, religious, doomed, homophobic, transphobic, Islamophobic, very, very Indian. It’s only my grandmother who acknowledges the sexism floating between our family; she dreamt high and was ambition incarnate but her marriage to this horrible fucking man led her to be so oppressed she couldn't speak a word of English without being thoroughly taunted for it.” His face clearly contorted into a gnarly grimace, and I felt my nose start to itch and burn again remembering all this up… Never had I ever trauma-puked this well or been so comfortable vomiting it out to someone I did not know.

“’s just… Fuckin’ Hell. I can’t translate it into words, I can only feel.” Shaking my head in a paternal sort of disappointment (no matter how much I despise the fact, I am my father’s daughter; his copy of carbon) at my inability, I felt myself pulled in again… How? How was he doing this shit? Being so fucking kind? It made me anxious, admittedly. Why was he so kind? What did the fucker want?

I’m being too cynical. I wanted to cry; instead I accepted his tentative comfort and shoved my face into the nook of his neck, breathing down it like a vampire in the night. I had the purely feminine, feline urge to wrap myself around him like Sarin and never let go to slowly dissolve into him even if maggots eat us out. Why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why…? For a few minutes I think, we stayed in that exact position, in a sort of silence that neutered my turmoil. His arms were gel onto my wounds, and I, terrified, readily crept in like the Dutch beetle on the elm.

“Don’t.” I eventually muttered out into the tender, pale, untouched flesh of temptation on his neck; I don’t know why I did it, don’t decipher or discover the root at all. What is a girl to do when offered love on a silver spoon when she only possesses a forked tongue of venom caused from licking slivers of love off a parental knife? I was a black, not racially but spiritually. I was corrupt, disgust, free-use trash for swollen cocks with zero semblance of any soul and only a pretty body. It’s my pretty power which is my ugly. I am disgusting… I sometimes feel the scorching need to cleanse myself, to face redemption, to hurry to salvation; and other days I revel in the hellfire of lust that would surround me once I am liberated of this uséd body.

[mulders-too-large-shirt]

s3 episode 5 thoughts

woohoo! here we are again. it's gonna be hard to follow last night’s episode, because it was frankly a banger. but i am eager to spend any time with my good friends mulder and scully.

(especially because my brain is currently a vague slushie substance being shaken about due to us politics. so i need this healing experience. of time with them)

we begin with a hitchhiker on the road. it always gags me that people used to do that and not be terrified of getting axe murdered. he’s sharply dressed though, i’d wear that sweater. drop the link, random fellow. 

oh- it isn’t a hitchhiking? well, potential crisis averted, i suppose. the guy who picks him up knows him. they’re going to prison. is this the same prison as before? the please please please prison? it looks a little different. but maybe that's just the angle.

the folks at the prison are talking about some guy named neech, who is allegedly being difficult. it seems they are going to put him to death, which is a most unfortunate thing. his wife is saying goodbye, and that she won’t betray their love. she believes that the governor will pull through and save him. and wait no, i’m sad now :(((( what if he is innocent…

they’re walking him into the electric chair, and ominous music is playing. i do not wish to watch this moment. they offer him a hood? and he denies it, but i didn't know that was a thing that happened at this sort of event. not-a-hitchhiker man has a hood when he pulls down the handle. 

this man- neech- says he will be reincarnated and that five men will die. and then they pull the handle and a bunch of people are watching?? do people really watch when such an awful thing happens? i guess maybe reporters but like damn, that is supremely messed up.

well, a sad and scary beginning. off to D.C.! mulder explains that neech had been granted last-minute stays two times before. i am learning i do not know much about the subject of how death row works.

scully looks beautiful. really beautiful. 

mulder says this man was very smart and charismatic. and that he was a getaway driver, which does not seem like something you should die for...

and now those five people who mistreated him are starting to drop! is it ghost time? or a plot for posthumous judgement afoot...?

prison time. no scene showing the flight and or car ride to florida. sad!

scully strides into examine the body of the guy who has been killed. it was very powerful, that stride. she then lifts the sheet up and noticed that it is covered in maggots, but she doesn’t seem phased, and says to put it into refrigeration. seems early for maggots, no? just being quite recently murdered? mulder is making a disgusted face LMAO 

so now they’re talking to another prisoner who thinks neech is back. scully's side profile is serving. 

but these men are catcalling her so that is not pleasant.

this guard who is watching her seems to really have hated neech so i’m beginning to suspect that he’s next to fall. he has a very prominent mustache.

mustache guard leaves scully alone in death row??? rude as hell. but she sneaks off. i love a woman who sneaks off. who slinks around, even. 

SOMEONE GRABS HER???? this man (who we later learn is a guard named parmelly) says he knows who is going to die next because there is a list, and a prisoner named roque has it. and that he wants to help her. well i don’t know if you had to go about it in such a terrifying manner!!! does help have to be done with snatching?? usually not.

the mustache guard says “it’s not a place for a woman to be doing that (looking around) alone"... okay so maybe if you hadn’t ditched her she wouldn’t have to do that… hope this tip helps <3

she looks really scared though, and she wants to get the hell out of here. knocking on the door to be let out. i do not blame her. she doesn’t seem to mention the creepy encounter to mulder.

next morning, the other prisoners are painting. and they find the mustache guard- well, they find his head in a bucket full of paint and maggots!! shoutout to the props department. because this head, it’s gnarly, but also almost endearing in its faux gore. i love you props teammmm <3

some guy is giving scully the head. she points out that the maggots are a bit early. but he’s saying no no no we have special bugs here in florida. which i certainly don't know enough about florida to dispute.

mulder is visiting the prisoner who claims to have the list… named roque. so she did tell him about the whole list allegation… hmm.

pause. why is mulder sitting on the table while he talks to roque. i’m howlinggggg we truly cannot take his ass anywhere. what a whimsical fellow.

roque says he wants to be transferred out of the block in exchange for the other three on the list. seems a bit outlandish. because if there IS a supernatural force going about killing people, all that information would do is just give the murder victims a head's up to get their affairs in order. but i wish him luck on his bargaining mission.

mulder is doing that thing now where he carries his jacket over his shoulder, and i gave that a go the other day and it felt amazing. but the warden says he can’t make a deal. because then everyone will make deals. scully says it could save three lives!! but then more people will just want to kill guards, the warden replies. heartbreakingly, i do see his point.

opens the door to find a decapitated body. warden sighs deeply. average day on the job.

back in neech’s cell, our duo is looking through his stuff. and they’re talking about reincarnation, which he claims is in all the world religions. “i’m sorry mulder, that’s not what i learned in catechism” LMAOOOO do not try to out catholic her. he tries, though, bringing up the resurrection. which is DIFFERENT. obviously. smh his protestant ass...

(wait he's from massachusetts... maybe he was raised catholic, too. i need to be looking out for clues. because we saw him in a church in like the fourth episode of the show. mulder i'll figure our your lore if it's the last thing i do)

anyway. they’re so close discussing reincarnation and world religions in this dead prisoner’s cell it almost feels dirty.

“imagine if it were true, scully. imagine if you could come back and take out five people who had caused you to suffer. who would they be?” “i only get five?” <- LMAOOOO i love her soooo much

“i remembered your birthday this year, didn’t i?”, he asks, and they smile at each other. UGH THESE TWO. i want more of this banter even if it takes place at the scene of a murder <3

they decide to go to neech’s wife, who they realize might have some clues. and she’s pretty. she speaks about how she has been dreaming about neech being put in the chair but not dying. so what does that mean.... and her hands are really shaking even though she’s smoking. so she seems really scared. as if he is going to come and get her.

roque is gonna talk with the warden. a deal? hmm, i’m not buying it. this warden seems evil. why is he taking him the other way? but he does bring him to the warden. WHO PUNCHES HIM???? and asks who is on the list. he tells him the warden is on the list. and that he is number 5. we brushed past the punching quickly as a plot point but it was pretty awful.

the warden says they “found” roque beaten to death …. wow. who could have possibly been responsible for this? /s

back at neech's wife’s house…. AND THERE IS ANOTHER MAN HERE. THE GUARD THAT GRABBED SCULLY!!! PARMELLY. OH, THIS IS TEA. parmelly promises that neech won’t come back. what happened to the promise of being true?! you'd think promises made before executions would be a top priority to keep.

but, at the site of the dead roque at work the next day, he DOES tower over scully and say “i warned you” ummm hello?? it is making him look suspicious.

mulder side profile is also serving. 

despite being busy being the second baddest girl in this prison, mulder realizes that all the people who died had caused neech physical pain. so that maybe the executioner is next…. and maybe roque WASN’T man number three…. oh he's picking up on things.

now, let us come with the agents as they walk into a creepy house. mulder picks up the mail. then lets himself in. and yes, it will continue to make me laugh every single time these two barge into a place

whoever lives here, he has a tasteful fish print on the wall. scully examines his fish photos. OH! it’s the “hitchhiker” from before. and the ground… it is covered in maggots… she looks up to see… maggots falling from the roof… he catches one. like a fallen snowflake. WHY WOULD HE DO THAT. we seriously need to take action against this man.

and bam. in the attic. dead man. very decomposed. again mulder seems to gag. well he wasn't gagging when he was catching the MAGGOTS falling from the dude's BODY, so where does he draw the line?

this other man they're interrogating says he saw neech. and that roque was NOT on the list. so it's getting complicated. not looking great for the warden, who seems he shall be caught shortly. or not, who knows.

BUT, we learn neech had made a bunch of phone calls to an outside number before he died… to an attorney who represented neech way back in the day. so they're off to visit him.

OH attorney spills the tea: that the wife has a boyfriend and he was waving a gun in his face!!!! parmelly, things are not looking great for you either...

the attorney is sipping something and taking his shirt off and probs gonna die shortly. and oh… we hear a buzzing. before someone strangles him!!! it was a very quick and vague shot, i can’t tell who it was that did the crime. but i’m guessing it’s parmelly, because we see him next driving home. interesting... mulder's earlier theory was that those who died had inflicted physical pain on neech, but this guy just failed to prevent him from being put in prison.

danielle the girlfriend slash neech's wife is like WHERE WERE YOU. THE FBI IS HERE. 

“woman gets lonely. sometimes she can’t wait around for a man to get reincarnated” <- wise words from scully, watching from outside. it is hard to wait for such things.

so they tell the warden about parmelly and danielle. and from him, they learn that the attorney they had just spoken to was SUFFOCATED TO DEATH THAT NIGHT. word sure does spread fast in this town.

mulder looks like he’s calculating some stuff as the warden says to go arrest parmelly. he's doing mental chess.

danielle sees neech in her room???? he disappears. okay so is this real or is she hallucinating...? it’s way too quiet as she goes into the kitchen and tells parmelly that neech is here. 

danielle has a GUN. she says to parmelly “you’re him” and she SHOOTS him. and cries. saying it was him, that he came back. HUH? things sure did escalate.

back at the prison, the warden wants to talk to speranza. and starts BEATING him. he says "all i know is one more man is supposed to die" and the prisoners yell for the warden to leave speranza alone. what happens to speranza is unclear.

agents driving home after another hard day at work, but mulder is pulling aside, stopping the car in the middle of nowhere. “why are we stopping?”, she asks “you know it just doesn’t make sense”, is what he says. you ever get a hunch so bad you pull over on the side of the road and start wandering about? yeah. just one of those days for him.

he says it doesn’t make sense to lay it all on parmelly. they’re on the side of the road debating this. he does not want to leave the matter unsolved, it seems, while she says it's over, let's go home. ominous music is playing whilst this occurs.

the warden drives by and we hear a fly buzzing. and then neech is behind him STRANGLING HIM. fade down to neech no longer being in the car, after the warden has been killed. and an end shot on the warden’s bloody face.

HUH???

this episode had me SPOOKED. it was suspenseful in a really good way. i like when this show has me on the edge of my seat and it feels like there is a ticking time bomb going off. and then when it DOES blow up, all the pieces land in place.

this episode was really good! it wasn’t one of my absolute favorites- hard to beat the mid s2 arc and the start of s3- but it was definitely good in terms of an episode that doesn’t advance the overarching alien plot. it was dark, but it also had some light moments, like scully one liners, which are always appreciated. and like i said last time, after a comedic episode, you need to be careful where you go next in terms of tone. but this time the difference didn’t feel as jarring. sure, it was spooky, and murder and prisoners and executions were going on, but it didn’t feel as unpleasant to watch as the calusari episode that came after humbug, which just left me sad and feeling weird. perhaps we can attribute this to the warden, who we saw inflicting so much pain onto others, having justice meted upon him in the end. that always makes an episode feel more palatable, i think. less like we just watched suffering for suffering’s sake.

please let me know what you thought; i’m curious. i really liked the pacing again, and the element of things almost adding up but just not quite. i love a twist and a turn. it was a solid episode! i prefer episodes where we learn more about mulder and scully, but we did have some good moments here, especially crime scene reincarnation talk. i also think he put his hand on her back before she walked into a room again. and i feel the need to once again make the disclaimer that this is a thing that is only endearing when fox mulder does it to scully, or when such a thing has been discussed between mutually consenting partners in the real world. put ur hand on the small of my back before we've discussed it and what a rabid raccoon can do to the human body will look like a round of warm up sparring when i get through with you.

but i digress. tell me what you thought of the episode! i thought neech was compelling.

(i know there is a wikipedia page for each episode, and therefore i could consult that to see how the episode was received, but it’s much more fun to ask real human people their thoughts!!)

[r3g-p14y3r]

HeheheHEHEHEHEHEHE seven-hundred and twenty-six words worth of angst.

CW: death

Still Here.

…

Why are human lives so short?

Pen brushes their digits over the damp soil that lays in front of their seated form.

Here. Here is where you lie. The headstone may have been corroded to the point of illegibility with the passage of time, but they still remember where you were buried.

“Hey comet,” Pen softly addresses the worn stone. “Hope you’re doing well here. I…I know it’s been a while since I last visited, I’m sorry. Even after so many decades, it’s hard to bring myself here and remind myself that you’re gone. Me and my brothers still miss you.”

Gone. Is that what you are? Away from this world, away from where they and their siblings can reach you? Where they can hold you once more in their arms when their spark finally dies out? When that happens, can they?

Could they?

It still hurts so much, your passing. It really doesn’t feel all that long ago when you stargazed with them and took care of the children, despite the number of human generations that’ve gone by.

Around the gravesite, flowers of many colours bloom and brighten the atmosphere, at least by a little. Just like you, these plants don’t last long. It’s a reminder of sorts, he supposes, and also a source of comfort. The petals are as bright as you were in his life and his brothers; it makes the place feel like it still has you around.

“Lunar, while still refusing to visit you, is doing better. He’s started patrolling again…though he says they’re much more lonely now without you to accompany him. Helio continues to watch the stars and imagine you’re there among them. I do so too.” Penumbra pauses for a while and takes that brief silence to rove his optics over the garden that lays before him. He did consider planting a willow tree, what with the longer lifespan, symbolism and all, but chose flowers instead. They seemed more in line with what he had in mind: respect for you and your humanity.

“It’s a nice thought,” he adds gingerly.

It’s nowhere near dark enough to spot those shining lights, but he turns his helm towards the sky anyways. They can still recall what it felt like with you in their palm, so small, so fragile as they listened to you talk of the little starlings with pride and joy in your voice. And when you’d lean against their thumb as you slowly drifted into dreamland under that speckled sky, that’s when their spark would warm the most. Moments like that remind him of how much you trust h— trusted him.

Said starlings have long since passed as well. He watched them grow, learn, struggle, thrive—

—and die.

“Perhaps when my spark extinguishes, I can join you among those stars. It’d be lovely to see them up close with you. Helio and Lunar would love to as well, I believe. We could all explore your Milky Way together, along with our little ones.”

Pen falls silent. He’s heard of the belief of souls in human culture. Of reincarnation, of sticking around the living plane and watching over loved ones.

Maybe you are watching over them right now? The notion causes a fire to burn in the back of his eyes. “Oh, comet…” their voice breaks at last.

It feels like his spark chamber is being teared open from the inside out. It hurts. He can’t bear to look at that veil above Earth anymore and buries his face into his hands. They try not to cry, they really do, but his efforts aren’t enough.

They sob out your name in a way that calls for one more hug, one more kiss, one more night of spending time under the stars with you. Just one more time.

They’re still here, and you are not. You aren’t here to wipe away their tears and comfort them. You aren’t here to hold their pinky with those tiny hands in a heartwarming display and assure them that you’re alright and at peace.

You aren’t here, nor are the children.

Penumbra curls in on himself further and continues to cry out your name in heartbroken pleas that’ve long grown quiet with strain. They don’t know what to do other than let out all the pain in this vibrant, lonely garden.

They hope you aren’t suffering, watching them bawl like this over your grave in agony.

They hope you aren’t crying too.

[owlespresso]

adrenaline lunge blade x reader tags: fem!reader, spice beneath the cut, dubious consent, Blade does unspeakable things with the hilt of his sword, reader is implied to be a reincarnation of someone Blade once knew

The fight was finished in a flash. Or at least, that’s what it felt like. It passes through your vision like old timey strips of film.

Your blade slices through the flesh of your foes like a hot knife through butter. The blood is warm on your hands, on your face. You might be covered in it, honestly. From head to heel. Maybe it’s the adrenaline that warms your body. Drenched in sweat which cools under the cold gales which slice across the muddy plane. The overcast skies seem to coalesce with the smoke. You breathe it in, become it, cloak and cutlass billowy blurs as you slice and slice and slice. 

All at once, there’s silence. Eerie quiet. The world comes back to you in stages. Awareness stumbling fumbling back into your body like a metal pipe tossed down a flight of stairs. Concrete. Concrete stairs, hard and grey. 

The only figure standing upright in the bleak landscape is the other mercenary you deployed with. Blade. A Stellaron Hunter, a trained killer whose quiet and frigid demeanor have made him an easy, though unsettling traveling partner. It’s been a week since you’ve deployed, traveling across this planet’s barren, war-torn plains in search of some sort of gadget or gizmo for them. You weren’t entirely paying attention when it was explained to you, and you don’t exactly care what it does or why they want it. The Stellaron Hunters have a horrendous reputation amongst the stars, but they pay exceedingly well. That’s all you can ask for.

It’s not like it’s difficult work. You clean up the unfortunate remnants of some Abundance-related invaders and progress towards whatever thing they’re looking for. No one knows the deadened valleys and ancient ruins and impact craters of this forsaken planet like you do. It’s an easy payday, and the company isn’t as obnoxious as you had at first feared.

He speaks only when he has to and follows commands with mechanical perfection. He stares at you, when he likely thinks you’re asleep during the night’s small hours. In fairness, though, there isn’t much else in the wasteland to look at. Maybe he’s just ensuring you don’t slip away before fulfilling your end of the bargain.

He’s looking at you now, a few yards away. His eyes are blown wide, letting you see the candle wick of his irises in perfect clarity. His bloodied lips are slightly parted. His sword is soaked in similar crimson, spiderweb veins of bright gold gleaming underneath all the viscera. You open your mouth to call out to him, but he’s already moving in your direction, taking long, measured strides across the field—until he reaches the halfway point. 

He breaks into a sprint. The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end as he closes the gap between you. He’s not there, and then he is, with a suddenness you hadn’t thought possible.

Blade bowls into you, rough hands shoving you into the grey dirt. Your back thunks against the cold, hard ground. Maybe you shout, it’s hard to tell over the sound of the blood rushing in your ears. 

“Blade—” you try, as he drops down. His knees land on either side of your hips, stranding you between those thick thighs. You swallow, eyes blown wide. The iron grip you have on your cutlass's handle doesn't wane, but you keep still, unsure if rending him in twain would truly do anything. You’ve seen him regenerate and recover from wounds that should have killed him instantly—what can you do? “We’re on the same team—” Surely, the mara hasn’t rendered him incapable of recognizing you? 

Where is his handler, the wine-haired woman you’d met for a flash few seconds before embarking? You should have asked her more—should have insisted she tell you how to deal with him when he rages out of control, but any thoughts or pre-death regrets rattle out of your skull as he sets his teeth to the bottom of your jaw, a calloused hand gripping your hip and squeezing.

“I knew it from the start,” his lips ghost against your skin as he speaks, tongue and teeth carving a raw path down your throat. Your free hand sinks into the broad, firm flesh of his shoulder, wrinkles in his jacket. “It was the way you smelled—gunpowder and chamomile.” He mutters in between bites and open-mouthed kisses. The adrenaline from the fight filters into something carnal and hot, settling low in your stomach as you twitch beneath him.

You’re left to flounder as he undoes your belt, shoves your black trousers down to your knees. His fingers pet your cunt through your panties, black and plain and unsexy. A part of you feels a rush of completely misplaced self-consciousness, but that too is shorted out along with the rest of your thoughts as he presses back close to you, idly toying with your folds and clit whilst his mouth paints spit and blood across your skin. The wetness chills under the rolling winds, free hand dipping under your shirt to squeeze and palm at your stomach, as though desperate to touch any part of you.

You take in a shuddering gasp as his warm, warm, warm tongue presses against the gusset of your panties. He licks you like a fucking dog through the wetted fabric, hands kneading your thighs tight enough to bruise. He breathes you in, long and shuddering, lets you feel the press of his face as he noses as deep into your cunt as he can get. A maniac, a madman—your pulse skyrockets, breaths becoming pants and pants becoming something deeper. Sobs? You can’t tell, anymore. 

“I knew it was you,” he repeats, softer this time, voice dragged by something tender and aching. A misplaced fondness you know not what to do with. You’ve never met him before accepting this mission, and you’re sure you would remember someone like him.

His thumbs hook underneath the sides, a thin strand of slick sticking to the cotton as he drags them down your thighs. Just enough for him to touch your skin, crowding in between your thighs. His eyes flutter shut, the very picture of a man savoring a meal. Molten strokes roll up your spine with every brush of his tongue. Your thighs snap shut around either side of his head and he moans, sound so rich and raunchy you can hardly believe it came from him. Blade, who you’ve known for little more than a week and some, so stoic and still you hardly considered him alive.

It’s with starting gentility that the tips of his fingers nudge your panties to the side. They brush over your wettening folds, thumb seeking your clit while his tongue dives deep towards your entrance, circling its very edge. You shout, you howl, you whine into the empty air, hips writhing and rolling in his brutal, unyielding grasp.

“Blade! Are we really doing this here!?” You’re more irate than afraid. You tap your ankle against the back of his shoulder, giving a surprised shout when he grabs the joint and tugs you even closer. Doing this here, steeped in blood and surrounded by the red strewn bodies of allies and foes alike, is an unsafe and perhaps unsanitary prospect. But you are not in the practice of making decisions safe or sane. 

“Do you see anywhere else to do it?” Blade replies, annoyed, not even lifting his head. You feel his lips against your clit and folds as he talks, warm breath brushing against the sopping skin. 

And fuck it, really. There’s nothing else you can do. Might as well let the sensation wash the shame away. Not that you have much of a choice. 

Those calloused fingers pet meanly at your walls, run figure-eights up and down until he hits a spot that has your back arching, toes curling as you scream to the skies. He wrings your pleasure out of you, fucks you on his fingers with a dexterity and skill he has no right to possess. Blade, cold and steel and empty before whatever brought this fit on.

You’re about to cum, you realize, nearly devastated. That tight, succulent heat churns in your lower tummy, free hand fisting in his hair. How has he managed to push you this far so quickly? You’re almost annoyed all over again. A guy with a personality this shit shouldn’t know how to do this. He shouldn’t be getting any action at all!

“Blade,” you snap, and he stops moving. Long digits leave your cunt with an obscene, wet sound. A sense of cold emptiness cloys at the space where he was, but you push the longing down in favor of catching your breath. Your chest rises and falls rapidly as you lift yourself onto your elbows, beginning to shift away from him.

Before you can even squirm an inch, he’s yanking you close again. Is he toying with you?

“Blade,” you grumble. “Don’t fuck with me.” Your ankle digs into the back of his shoulder in warning. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t release you, either. Silence settles between the both of you, only interrupted by his deep breathing. “Fine,” you grimace, surrendering yourself to his whims for the time being. The uncertainty of what he’ll do next makes your skin crawl, but he’s clearly intent on keeping you in his grasp—and angering him is the last thing you want to do when he’s behaving so unpredictably.

There’s a metallic clink. You take in a deep, stuttering breath, steeling yourself for the oncoming press of his cock.

Except it’s too cold, too ovaline to be human. Thicker than a finger but perhaps too thin to be his cock. Swallowing another whimper, you glance back down—just in time to watch him feed the hilt of his sword into your aching, clenching cunt. The sob he wrenches from you is so deep and guttural that it burns—you’re used to blood and death and carnage, but something about this feels so filthy. Near sacrilegious, despite your complete lack of faith. The blade isn’t sheathed. It’s cutting blood gashes into his fingers and palms, scarlet bleeding onto dirt. He doesn’t react. His eyes are blown wide and his candlewick irises smothered into a bright ring around his pupils. That manic gaze remains fixed on where your legs remain splayed open and twitching for him, gasping for breath. 

“Blade, are you fucking kidding me—” you must be making some sort of stupid expression, eyes wide and mouth agape. He offers no remorse or shame, leaves you to listen to the lewd squelching that fills the air as he drives the hilt further inside of you. Your cunt squeezes around it tight, and you drop your arm over your eyes. Hot tears roll down your cheeks and you blink—when did you start crying? There’s no space to think properly, not when he pulls the weapon back and shoves it forward, beginning a rough pace that absolutely knocks the breath out of you. “Blade, what are you—”

A firm hand seizes your wrist and wrenches your arm to the ground. His fingers lace through yours in some strange simulacrum of tenderness.

“Eyes on me, girl,” he snarls, but you hardly hear it over the thrumming in your ears.

You squint as light floods your vision, nothing bleak skies for miles and miles. Bleak skies and you and a madman, intent on watching your pleasure just as much as supplying it. It’s as though his universe has boiled down to a single point, bitten lips falling open around pants.

A roughened, calloused thumb bats at your clit, rolling over the bundle of nerves in a series of unkind, jerking circles that make you writhe. The feeling is white hot, unsteady pleasure slipping easily into pain as he works you over the hilt of his sword. 

You cum on it, too. With tears running down your hot cheeks, your entire body tingling like an exposed nerve. You’re not sure how long you lay there. The sky remains apathetic and unchanging as the cool air fills your lungs. His touch leaves you, bare and empty. The sweat that slicks your skin cools underneath the rolling breezes. 

The lunacy is gone from his gaze, now, replaced by something bitter and stoic. 

“Do not look at me like that. You were the one that did this,” you snap at him, and he lowers his gaze. Almost ashamed. He doesn’t reply. Instead, he fixes your clothes, sliding your panties and trousers back on with hands that have somehow already healed, gaping gashes replaced by perfect, new skin. You watch his fingers work, looping your belt back into place over your hips. The action, compared with the silence, is oddly and uncomfortably intimate. You don’t try and piece together why he does it, nor do you try and understand what just happened. It was excess adrenaline leftover from battle, you reason, and don’t peer beyond that.

You push yourself to your feet as soon as you feel presentable. He doesn’t help you (even though he by all means should), but you like it better that way. The two of you amble through the field of corpses, each step making you painfully aware of the cooling wetness which lingers between your legs. A new ache hounds you between the crux of your thighs.

“You’re taking care of dinner tonight,” you bite out. He hums, though you can’t tell whether it’s a noise of agreement. Just one of acknowledgement. His footfalls thud heavily behind you. You pretend you don’t feel the white hot of his gaze burrowing between your shoulders. In a few hours, none of this will matter. You focus on the empty horizon, amble towards the extraction point on wobbly fawn’s legs.

[wundrousarts]

Do you think wundersmiths can talk with their past lifes like in avatar the last airbender?

Hmmm….. I think other people may have their own ideas and theories on this, but I am of the camp that the lines are not reincarnations, at least not in the traditional “past lives” / ATLA sense.

I don’t think there’s 9 souls getting reborn over and over. I think it’s just there’s 9 vessels that the Wunder / Wundersmithness gets transferred to. It’s unclear exactly how the lines are connected. We know from that Wundersmiths are referred to as like “First-Line Wundersmiths, Second-Line Wundersmiths, etc.” but I don’t think that being in any particular Line has any benefit, such as a tendency towards a particular Art.

Onstald’s book uses the following language:

Chronicling the misdeeds of the First-Line Wundersmith, Brilliance Amadeo, her predecessor the Wundersmith Deng Li, his predecessor the Wundersmith Christobel Fallon-Dunham, her predecessor the …

And Mog wonders at one point,

… which Wundersmith she might have replaced, and who among the original nine was her predecessor …

My understanding of Wundersmiths is that there are always 9 of them, which is why when one dies Wunsoc would immediately search for “the child who’d been born to take their place.” As in, there are always 9 Wundersmiths in the world no matter what.

As for the Lines and the chambers, Mog and Sofia have this exchange:

“Will I have a room named after me here someday, do you think?” Morrigan asked. “My understanding is that it happens when a Wundersmith turns one hundred years old. Or… erm, when they die. Whichever comes first,” explained Sofia.”

Mog asks that after reaching Odbuoy Jemmity’s chamber, who was killed at Courage Square, so based on this, it is a likely chance that at least his was created when he died. Your ask actually led me to investigate how old he was in the Nevermoor discord , but I don’t have the energy to transfer that all here right now, lol. But TL;DR: I do not think he was even near 100 years old. I think if we knew who’s chamber led into Odbuoy’s, we’d have a better idea of how the Lines are connected and what’s needed for a chamber to be made. I personally think they’re made by magic and not actually built, and the “cursed children” don’t have rooms despite dying because they are not part of Wunsoc.

I’ve also been thinking about the whole Wundrous Arts apprenticeship thing lately, and wondering how common or uncommon it was.

The language of the apprenticeship contract is: This is a Wundrous Arts apprenticeship agreement between the Wundersmith Ezra Squall and the Wundersmith Morrigan Crow. Arrangement to end either by mutual accord, or when the apprentice has mastered nine Wundrous Arts—including pilgrimage to the appropriate Divinities and acquisition of their respective seals.

Maybe the chambers indicate apprenticeship lineages? Sort of like Star Wars padawan lineages, lol… Like perhaps once they master all the Arts, they can have a chamber. Only thing that throws me off is I guess the ages of Wundersmiths and that if this was how it worked they could only have one apprentice. So I don't know. The wording of Squall's contract just makes me wonder if Wundrous Arts apprenticeships may have been done before.

Currently, I think I lean towards the other option for the Lines, but who knows. The wording of "predecessor" in relation to the concept of "replacing" is why I lean more towards it simply being who died and who "took the place." There is also the wording of "next generation," which could maybe go either way but I lean more towards the "replacing" by death/birth thing.

I think that knowing who is in the chamber before Odbuoy would help narrow down the possible ways the Lines and chambers form and connect. For example, it would be interesting to know if the chamber is someone who was alive during The Ghostly Hour from Age of Endings, Spring of Nine (where Odbuoy was seemingly alive but not present), or if it's someone who isn't present, and then may have been the previous Wundersmith that died and Odbuoy replaced.

But also this is just my current theory based on what little information we have to go off of! Regardless of how it all works, I hope that Mog or Squall are Ninth-Line Wundersmiths, lol. Also I am so sorry but I realized I actually just swerved to the side of your question to ramble instead 😅 If any of this doesn't make any sense I can always try my best to reword or elaborate!

[holycatsandrabbits]

Paranormal Romance #2: The Living and the Undead

Welcome! This is the second article in a series on my blog about paranormal romance. Today we’re looking at a modern romance classic: vampires and humans. So let’s light some blood-red candles and get started.

Paranormal Romance #1: The Living and the Dead: Ghosts and Humans

What’s your (blood) type?

Your standard vampire comes with a few stock traits: ageless immortality, a need for blood, heightened strength and speed, an aversion to sunlight and religious items, and of course, otherworldly beauty. But you can modify these tropes however you like. In the real world, lovers come in all shapes and sizes. Perhaps instead of increased speed, your vampires have mojo for music. Maybe they get moonburns instead of sunburns, and feed on something other than blood—maybe you have a vampire who’s even allergic to blood! And it’s up to you how alien you want your vampire to be. Do they blend in well with humans or do they give everybody a sudden urge fill their pockets with garlic? Do they try to blend in well with humans or do they turn into a mist to escape social situations? And remember, you don’t even have to have the standard origin story: your vampire doesn’t even have to be undead.

(Check out some unusual vampires that might make good characters.)

A dark, brooding presence

Vampires also tend to have a stock personality, which can be summed up as angst. It must surely be difficult to be immortal and watch your friends die of old age and to be ostracized by society for feeding on humans (even consensually). But really, vampires could be anybody, including those with naturally sunny, upbeat personalities. A vampire could be a travel blogger, using their immortality to see the world. Maybe they’re a paleontologist because it makes them feel young to work with creatures far older than themselves. Maybe they just want to develop a super-strong sunscreen so they can go surfing when all the hot chicks (gender neutral) are at the beach, or discover a blood substitute so they can be an astronaut who doesn’t need to snack on their space station buddies.

Source of life

Now onto the other side of the relationship: standard character tropes for humans in a vampire romance include beautiful and naive virgins, vampire hunters (naturally), and a personal favorite of mine, reincarnated former lovers. Historians are another common choice, as in my gay vampire romance Tollense. But again, anybody could presumably fall in love with a vampire, from a theoretical physicist to a theme park tour guide. Your human character could believe vampires are fictional, or have been raised with forbidden occult knowledge of the undead. Because this is a romance, your human will eventually choose to be in a relationship with a vampire, but it might take them a while to get there. And even if they discover they have an unexpected creepy creature kink, their family or society in general might be against it. And there’s also that pesky immortality thing. (More on that below.)

A bloody good romance

Arguably the most important mechanic of a vampire/human romance is blood. The human in this relationship is not just a lover, but a source of food. Which can be really hot and/or really weird. Often in vampire stories, blood-drinking is a highly sexualized experience, and usually emotional as well. There are all sorts of fun ways to get to the blood drinking stage of the story. Common favorites include an incognito injured vampire who needs blood to survive but won’t take it without permission, a vampire who doesn’t often drink human blood but finds their love interest bloody distracting (pun intended), or a smitten vampire who finally gets up the courage to tell their crush the truth about themselves. You could have humans who sell their blood to vampires, whether bottled or from the source, and vampires with favorite blood types. And then there’s vampire blood, which might give humans immortality and/or turn them into vampires. Which brings us to our final topic:

Death is only the beginning

Many vampire romances end with the mortal becoming immortal, either as a vampire or a human somehow protected from age and death (we should be so lucky). A more angsty ending has the human eventually die of old age. If the human does choose vampirism, some stories posit that two vampires can’t feed on each other’s blood, so their relationship has to change. That can be good or bad—maybe they’re both honestly over the lover-as-food thing, or they might just buy a bigger bed and invite a friendly human or two. Human characters who want to become vampires often have a yearning that immortality can satisfy, like travel, study, mastery of a musical instrument, or just an adventurous spirit. The kind of person who can promise forever and really mean it. And if that’s not romantic, what is?

This article was first published on my writing blog

DannyeChase.com ~ AO3 ~ Linktree ~ Weird Wednesday writing prompts blog ~ Resources for Writers 

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[writerswhy]

When I have too much on my mind I start making lists to help me sort it all out. It also serves as a reminder as I have the attention span of a goldfish and the patience of a squirrel: 

Kaname. I think he’s a very important character, especially once you start thinking about the Seireitei, captainhood, and the nature of justice. (I’m rereading Frankenstein and I can’t stop thinking about him. Like, he’s the Seireitei’s monster, and he’s his sword’s [and Kakyō‘s soul] Frankenstein. Also Les Misérables.)

Anon asks! I’m so sorry, I will try to get to them as soon as possible.

There’s an entire section in the Poetics of Space dedicated to poems about forests and I’m thinking of Hinamori here, always: 

“Silently the birds Fly through us. O, I, who long to grow,  I look outside myself, and the tree inside me grows.  This is a tree always destined for grandeur, and, in fact, it propagates this destiny by magnifying everything that surrounds it.”

The nature of zanpaktou and its relationship with the soul, inspired by Jeff Wall’s “Photography and Liquid Intellegence”: 

“I think this is because the mechanical character of the action of opening and closing the shutter—the substratum of instantaneity which persists in all photography—is the concrete opposite kind of movement from, for example, the flow of a liquid.” 

Mmm, maybe it fits kidou more, now that I’m thinking about it.

Soul Society headcanons on time and existing and death and dying. I don’t think it’s canon and this may go against the overall theme, but I like this idea of failing to accommodate for death/spaces left by loss and what that looks like. From shoving ghosts who will reincarnate in a day with those who take decades to do so, to grieving the “wrong” way (like Orihime who thought she was mourning her brother the “right” way - by moving on - only to have that result in her brother’s hollowfication).

Vaguely related, but this GIF set of one of my favorite ships from Until Dawn sparked a little Hitsuhina interest. Like, maybe it’s best to not know everything and experience everything with a person, no matter how much you love them. I’m sure Hinamori would rather enjoy a nice meal with Hitsugaya than fight alongside him or I don’t know, train with the purpose of becoming a captain as well (which I think Hinamori would very much not like or enjoy. That’s not where her ambition lies imo).

Bleach’s orbital laser - the hogyoku! I’m really excited about this one :)

I want to rewrite this post. Maybe break it up into parts.

Aizen and Hinamori. I have a lot of thoughts on these two and they’re the reason my interest in Bleach never truly went away. I already stated that Hinamori saw in Aizen what she was looking for outside Seireitei’s framework as the wonder started fading not just as a captain but as a man, and given she quotes him from time to time post-TYBW (quotes that openly question the order of things), I think Hinamori had an inkling of Aizen’s opinion on SS.

In @sillier-things’s Becoming (one of favorite fics of all time <33), Hinamori says his title rather than his name when they’re together and I love it <33 Love the desecration of his title in the captain quarters.

Also, I don’t know why this stuck with me but it briefly came up during a convo with @graphesthesia (hey friend~) that Aizen never creates his own kidou like Hinamori. I know it’s most likely because he doesn’t need to, but I like to think it’s indicative of his modus operandi to dominate (kinda like the Seireitei). In my very delusional opinion, I see Hinamori as thesis and Aizen as antithesis. In this essay I will - 🧍‍♀️💥🚗

[herofics]

Dabi gets reincarnated as a cat, part 2

I got a request for another part to this post months ago on wattpad and I finally got around to writing this. It's basically the same thing as the first one, but from Dabi’s perspective and a bit more. I have these for a couple different characters and they’re all a bit different with how I wrote the whole reincarnation thing. You can find them in the masterlist which is linked in the pinned post, or if you want me to link them separately, you can ask for that.

It had been two weeks since your new cat roommate had followed you home. You were still feeling raw about Dabi’s recent passing, but you had to admit that the cat was a nice distraction.

The little guy was very needy and incredibly loud. He kept meowing at you everytime he wanted your attention, and he wouldn’t stop until you took the time to pet him or give him food. He liked to sleep next to you during the night, and every time you sat down on the couch, he was right there on the couch with you. A lot of the time he would just curl up at the opposite end of the sofa, he seemed to like his own space. Another trait that reminded you of Dabi. You missed him so much.

The last few months had been very confusing for Dabi. He had woken up as a cat, but his consciousness had been going in and out at first. It was like half of the time he wasn’t awake and someone else was running the show. Bit by bit, he had been gaining more control over his new, tiny body. After about two months of wandering the streets in a sort of stupor, surviving on scraps and trash, he finally felt fully in control and conscious. That’s when he started looking for you. The world looked so different when he was so small, and it was a bit hard to navigate, but he managed to find your apartment.

For about a week, Dabi sat behind your window, not exactly hiding from you but still not really wanting to be seen. He didn’t actually need to worry about that, because you seemed to be basically unaware of everything around you. You didn’t notice him, not even once, which he took a bit of offense to.

Dabi was quite surprised you seemed to be in such bad shape even months after his passing. He’d always had a hard time believing you truly loved him, but he could see losing him had destroyed you. It was a pity it took him dying for him to see that.

One day you left your apartment and Dabi decided to follow you. He kept his distance, but made sure he could keep up with you. You walked for a while, before you finally arrived at a cemetery. You had bought a small bouquet of flowers on the way there, and you set it down on a grave.

“Todoroki Touya” it read.

Until now, there had been a small part of Dabi that had thought that maybe his current state had just been the effect of a quirk, but it was setting in now. He had died, his life as a human was over.

He didn’t even notice himself approaching you, before you had noticed him. You just stared at him for a moment, looking like you might start crying again.

“Are you alone too?” you asked him and offered your hand to him.

He really had become a damn cat. He tried to resist the urge to push his head into your hand, but it just felt like a natural thing to do, and he couldn’t resist. He started purring as you scratched under his chin. Maybe this wasn’t so bad. Maybe he could live like this, if it was with you.

“I need to go now buddy, you should go home too” you said as you stood up and started walking away.

Dabi couldn’t help but protest. He yowled so loudly it even surprised him, but it had the desired effect. You turned to look back and Dabi meowed again.

“You’re a loud little fella” you smiled a little bit at him.

As you walked home, he followed you. Hissing at anyone who dared pass too close to you. When you got home and opened the front door, Dabi strutted in and took his place on your couch. He was tired, so he decided to just go to sleep. He was with you now and he knew you’d keep him safe.

Compared to the time he’d been watching you through your window, the next two weeks seemed to be much better for you. You had even started cleaning and cooking more again. Your life seemed to be getting back on track.

However, Dabi could feel himself starting to fade. Not his body but his mind. He was becoming more cat and less himself. Maybe it was fate, he had been allowed to come back into your life for a while, so you wouldn’t drown in sorrow, but his time was starting to come to a close. It was time for him to go for good. After one night, Dabi was gone, and only the cat remained.

Dabi was glad you had the cat to keep you company, you wouldn’t know the difference anyway even if he was gone. Perhaps he could finally find some peace too.

[talenlee]

June 2024 Wrapup!

That’s it, Pride’s over. We’re done with any need to be queer because we obviously defeated the forces of not queer.

Hey how do all those dudes who are convinced they’re straight think their sexuality handles being attracted to nonbinary people? Like, nonbinary people can look like anything, presentation is a performance and everything, but if you believe in inherent qualities of genders, seeing a nonbinary person who’s hot has to be a problem right?

(oh who are we kidding, they pretend nonbinary people don’t exist. But if you do accept nonbinary people exist, you might be less straight than you think.)

Alright, let’s look at what articles came up in the Game Pile this month!

Gay Sauna: The Board Game, where we talked about the acceptable boundaries of genre mechanisms.

Arcade Spirits, where I made a video retelling my experiences of dealing with a game that I shouldn’t call a visual novel, because someone out there will get annoyed at an imperfect cladistic categorisation of game genres

Signalis, a game that oozes style but also told me to stop playing it, so I did

3 Indie TTRPGs, with Feathers, For the Dungeon and We Saved The World Once in a video

If you think the video on Feathers, For The Dungeon and We Saved The World Once was a bit ropy, yep! It got made very quick and close to the deadline because it was very difficult to make. Cooking these games down to entirely positive feedback without talking more about things I find personally interesting was hard enough, which is why the first seven minutes of the video are about problems with how we talk about indie TTRPGs.

Also, a thing I was really delighted by was getting to play Loom with Fox for the first time (part 1, part 2)!

Then there was this month’s Story Pile, about which I was way more enthusiastic!

Nimona, which is a great movie for kids,

Mobile Suit Gundam: The Witch From Mercury, which is a great anime, for slightly older kids!

Magical Revolution of the Reincarnated Princess And The Genius Young Lady, which is a mid anime, for slightly older kids still!

Bound, which is, uh, it’s not for kids

What else happened this month that I’m proud of?

Hm.

Hmmm.

This is a surprising one to say because normally I can think of articles that I want you to read in a sort of ‘well why haven’t you looked at this.’ But I’m in a bad mood right now and it’s colouring things about how I look at my own writing. My article on LIGMA is tainted by knowing how little of the greater context of the area I can communicate. My article about What Disgusts Jod got a response from a Locked Tomb fan that seemed to imply that actually, Jod wasn’t bi or pansexual, because a guy can have a threesome with a man and a woman and people will still try and pretend bisexuality doesn’t exist. My article about Tieflings was probably the thing I’m the most proud of this month, in the idea of the kind of writing I like doing, and I think my article on Faces For Skins is important? At least I avoided another breakdown article about how badly I feel Pride culture connects to or relates to me, though maybe that just shows up in the work in general.

There’s this month’s shirt design:

How hard is the Barbie aesthetic to replicate? With lookalike fonts it’s shockingly easy. I note that this one specifically is a drop shadow and not a 3d semblance, as you can see on the bottoms of the ls. Hey, do you want this on a sticker? Go for it!

In terms of real world events, June is jam packed. It’s the end of the Autumn Semester for me, as a tutor for one. This semester, I took on a lot of marking work, which I like to do, but which also meant that I looked at 118 asignments this month, and 60 of them had a 5 minute audio visual component. That’s five hours of student material to just watch. It ain’t nothing, and it adds up over time.

It’s also a time with four major family birthdays in them, which means I have to find ways and times to attend to physical events. This is not a problem, because I love my family but it sure makes me mindful of just how long it takes me to recover from that to do, y’know, things with myself like write for the blog. Marking periods take time out of the blog work.

The subject matter of the month is also less of a freebie than you might think because I feel like some things are too repetitive – I don’t imagine I’m going to find a third Transformers character to write about next year, for example. There’s also the way that February and June kinda blur together – I’m very fond of talking about queer media in February since that’s one of the most fun kinds of smoochy media I like.

I aim to keep the queued posts for this blog up to 50, so every day if I add a post, it goes to 51 and dips back down to 50. I also try to make sure I’m four weeks ahead on the video channels. This month, as I write this, I am one week ahead on the video, and the queue is down to 45. I am frustrated! But I am doing things to overcome that, and in the coming weeks, I don’t have to grapple with a theme!

I haven’t been getting to bed at good times. This month has featured multiple days where I get to bed at 4 in the morning, one even at 5. This is bad and I hate it. I hate it especially because it takes a long time to recover from it, to get back to sleeping at even the modestly more sensible time of midnight to one AM. I also haven’t been cooking as much as I want to — even modest resistance means that suddenly dinner is some microwaved oats and sultanas, with a splash of milk.

I think I may even be missing one of my June goals for Magic The Gathering: Arena, which isn’t exactly important, but it is a bit of a pisser. The aim was to hit gold tier in limited, which at this point I have… a few hours to do, and I’m still in Silver Tier. That’s not a big deal but it is a bummer.

Check it out on PRESS.exe to see it with images and links!