#sighs. love him even if he died to become an eldritch creature

[anzuhan]

what if i cried

[yellowmagicalgirl]

memories for when morning comes

An average afternoon and morning for Claire after ae stopped the Eternal Night.

This fic was, for the most part, written to spite an asshole on FFN who was complaining about how I use ae/aer pronouns for when I decide to specify that Claire is nonbinary in a fic, as opposed to they/them or she/her pronouns. Guess what? Ae/aer pronouns were first used in 1920, and even if they weren’t that old then one should still respect pronouns (especially for real people, though if this person is complaining about my pronoun choice for a fictional wizard I worry about how they’d treat real people who use neopronouns). (The other reasons I had for writing this were my own personal gender frustrations as well as just how it’s been a while since I wrote Claire.)

Title comes from “Welcome to Wonderland” by Anson Seabra, aka a song I found on a nonbinary pride playlist ;)

This fic isn’t Wizards compliant

Content/Spoiler Warning: Isolation, hopelessness, implied/referenced self harm, and introspection on misgendering and death

AO3

FFN

Claire wrapped aer arms around aerself and winced as even through the fabric ae could feel just how frozen aer hands were. That was the problem with having small, thin fingers. Aer circulation was pretty bad in aer hands. Sometimes, when aer nail polish was chipped, Claire’s could see how the natural color of aer nails changed to a pastel blue-violet tone, as opposed to the healthy pink that aer nails were supposed to be.

Speaking of supposed to be, where was Jim? He was supposed to be here ten minutes ago. Claire fought the urge to check aer phone again. He would be here any minute now, and if he had gotten caught up in some sort of trollhunting business, he wouldn’t be able to tell aer at the time. But, ae was tempted to go find a bench and pull out aer homework. That way, ae could at least do something useful instead of just waste aer energy shivering and feeling anxious.

Ae shouldn’t be so anxious. They had saved the world years ago, and aside from the occasional goblin nest or gnome uprising there hadn’t been any problems. Jim had retrieved the stone that allowed him to walk in the daylight, and had found out that he didn’t have to actually change as much about his diet as he had planned. It was small things, like coating his salad in dressing and eating his steak rare. The supernatural world was at peace. Morgana was dead and would never be able to hurt anyone ever again. But, sadly, Claire had been diagnosed with anxiety long before ae had learned the truth about the creatures that lurked in the shadows. Ae sighed before walking over to the nearest bench. It was warm underneath the late January sunbeam. Ae pulled out aer phone, but ae didn’t check the time. Ae placed an earbud in each of aer ears, reaching up at the same time to run one of aer hands through the fade of aer hair before reaching the curly faux hawk at the top and curling aer fingers into it. Perhaps it couldn’t be considered a proper fade, not anymore, not when Claire had decided to let it grow out for the winter months so the chill wouldn’t permeate so directly into aer skull.

Claire let aerself become pulled into the loud rock music blasting from their earbuds as ae pulled out a textbook from aer backpack and began to read. Ae didn’t notice anyone approach aer until a blue, four-fingered hand stopped aer from turning the page.

“Oh,” Claire said, pulling out aer earbuds. Aer boyfriend stood in front of aer, one hand behind his back. “There you are.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Jim said. “Mom was trying to cook and, well, it was going well until the kitchen towel started catching fire. But, I have something to make up for it!” He thrust his arm out from behind his back, revealing the bouquet of violets.

“Jim, I, thank you,” Claire said, tracing the softness of the flowers.

He smiled down at aer. “Of course, anything for my handsome Juliet.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have a vase or anything, would you?”

Jim scratched the base of his horns sheepishly and opened his mouth, probably to say that no, he hadn’t planned that far ahead for their date.

And ae woke up.

All of Claire’s dreams were bad dreams. Some of them were memories, and they happened more often if Claire fell asleep in front of the haunted TV that showed all of the times that ae had been scared. Some of them were an amalgamation of horrible things that ae had heard about and things that Morgana had done or intended to do to her victims.

The worst type of dream, though, was neither of those two. No, the worst type of dream wasn’t bad when it was happening. It was a wonderful, beautiful, pleasant escape from the horrible reality that Claire had doomed aerself to. Ae would wake up in the Shadow Realm and know that Jim was dead and everyone assumed that Claire was dead as well. That their beloved friend had died to save the world. Or worse, their beloved daughter or sister.

Claire had died before ae had come out to anyone except for Enrique. It was after Jim had rescued aer brother from the Darklands, but before Morgana had taken a hold on Claire’s body and mind. Well, a stronger hold than Claire merely just using the Shadow Staff.

Ae had been alone, and ae had started talking to him. Practicing how ae’d come out to aer friends and family and boyfriend, even though ae hadn’t been ready. Enrique was the only one who knew who Claire really was, and he was a baby. He wouldn’t understand, and he wouldn’t remember Claire talking to him, and he would grow up hearing about the sister he once had who never actually existed in the way everyone thought Claire had.

(There was a possibility that there was one other person who knew the truth about Claire, but ae didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to think about how the woman who called Claire Child instead of Daughter might be doing so as a sign of some horrible mimicry of respect. Really, Claire would have rather have had aer bodily and spiritual autonomy respected and be misgendered than for Morgana to respect that Claire wasn’t a girl but then turn around and treat aer like ae wasn’t a person, just a weapon.)

Enrique wouldn’t remember his older sibling’s monologues about aer gender frustration. Perhaps it was for the best. Claire hadn’t been meaning to actually tell aer brother, or else ae would have gone to NotEnrique instead, because out of the two brothers ae had the changeling was the one who actually knew more than ten words. It was just easier to talk to a listening ear than aer stuffed animals or a mirror (and that was before mirrors were a reminder of aer trauma). It had been practice for something terrifying that Claire would never have to do. Never get to do. Hadn’t been ready to do. Ae had never gotten around to deciding upon a more specific label than nonbinary. Between the dread that came with the possibility of someone finding aer trying to do research, and all of aer responsibilities, ae had never really had the time. And of course, ae knew that their were plenty of people who didn’t want a more specific label, but ae wanted one. Ae wanted a more specific label, if only so ae could list out all the reasons and point to something that explained that Claire wasn’t the only one. And instead, ae had waited too long and no one would know.

The trolls would have probably reacted well, since trollish gender was rather different than human gender. Jim and Toby probably would have been okay with aer as well, since they had reacted well to aer being bi and they were respectively bi and pan themselves.

Mary and Darci? Back in middle school, Darci had followed Claire to a few GSA meetings but as far as Claire knew she was there as an ally. And while Claire had seen the way that Mary sometimes looked at Shannon, Mary had never done anything else to indicate that she was anything other than straight and cis.

Aer parents? Claire knew that they loved aer. Besides, they wouldn’t have thrown aer out, if only because Ophelia was a politician on the left end of the political spectrum. But, aer family was Catholic, and ae wasn’t even out to them as bisexual, and that was at least something they might believe aer on. Aer dad might even be more relaxed if Claire had a (cis) girlfriend than with any boy ae could date, trollhunter or otherwise. And if aer dad was on aer side, then maybe he could convince aer mom to accept that their child was bisexual. Maybe, considering just how many arguments Claire had had with aer mom about how Claire couldn’t be her perfect daughter. How could Claire possibly convince aer parents that ae wasn’t their daughter at all? Granted, there was the possibility that they’d be to ecstatic to care about the gender binary when Claire escaped -

No. Ae was never going to escape the Shadow Realm.

Ae slipped out of bed, undoing one of aer long white braids. It had always had the tendency to get horrifically tangled, and that was before aer magic made it so aer hair moved in an otherwise imaginary hurricane. It would tangle enough to make aer cry. Braids were easier. Braids, or short enough hair that Claire wouldn’t have to worry about it tangling, but ae didn’t trust aerself with blades so close to aer own skin.

Ae had mastered walking around aer house as silently as possible. Perhaps ae had become a shadow of aerself here. Silent, and trying not to cause a stir, not to draw attention to aerself.

Claire gazed out aer window to the dark landscape of the Shadow Realm. Morgana was out there.

Or, maybe, ae had become more of aerself here. The shadows obeyed aer will, after all. So had the Shadow Staff. Aer will, and not Morgana’s. It had been so surprisingly easy to steal away the scepter of the Eldritch Queen. Perhaps it had been seeking a monarch as shadowy as itself.

Ae hadn’t had the time for researching and trying to find the perfect label to describe their gender. Now, ae had nothing but time to think and solitude to not worry about someone walking in on aer research. Now, ae had no access to anything that could give aer answers. Ae had tried, but there wasn’t a WiFi connection in the Shadow Realm. Ae couldn’t look anything up online, and it wasn’t like there were any books in the Nuñez household to help aer find the perfect word to describe aer gender.

And yet, Claire felt that ae could call their gender a shadowy void and ae would be incredibly accurate.

A/N: Is Jim actually dead in this? Probably not; Claire is probably just making an assumption because the last time ae saw aer boyfriend he had just jumped in the way of a magical blast that had been meant to take out Claire and aer friends.

[electronicdelusionstarlight]

(Look, I think I’m allowed at least one (1) Skyrim problematic fave and that’s going to be this Feral Cat Lady).

And I’m going to start right off with a small fic blurb, right under the cut:

“Are we there yet?” Lucien, her new travel companion, whines for what feels is the 100th time.

She’s met (and attempted to flirt with, much to his flustered bewilderment) the young man barely a couple hours, in the aptly named Dead’s Man Drink, and while he has certainly been proven himself invaluable as the human shield she so desperately needed, deep in the hostile and dangerous lands of Skyrim, but he sure could get... testy at times, almost annoying, especially under this light, early morning drizzle.

Still, he wasn’t the most annoying thing that ever happened to her, and he promised her compensation for her troubles, the man actually believing her to be some seasoned adventurer rather than a out of her luck spellslinger, born under the wrong great house, and a recently escaped convict...

She, is Armidia Arvel. She’s a Dunmer from Cyrodil, and not even half a day ago, she was trying to cross the border onto Skyrim.

Her grandma, bless her soul, was a minor member of House Hlaalu, not important enough to warrant any real mention really, but also a Prominent member of the Twin Lamps. She helped run away slaves cross the border with her boat, in the dead of night, and used to boast all the time about that one time she had met the Nerevarine herself, before she had left the island for the mysterious Akavir...

She had managed to miss the death of their great house by a slim margin, out with granny and dad in the Imperial Province when the gates opened, forced to settle there, in Bravil, after... all the mess that had come to their motherland, the red year, the invasion, the crisis, the purge...

Still, here she was now, born from a family of merchants and politicians, under the sign of the mage. They had tried to have her get a trade, maybe become a jeweler, forging rings and necklaces to sell to the highest bidder, settle down, but she’s always been restless, Armidia, wanting to explore new places, find new knoweldges, meet new people...

No matter how wrong they might be for her.

She sighs, tolerating her new... friend, she assume, dad always said someone should always treat everyone as their friend as long as they don’t lose that right via their actions, she can almost hear him parrot it again...

In fact, she is hearing him parroting it right now, that bastard hasn’t shut up ever since he died during that blasted great war, serving in the 8th legion, as do all of her blasted, bloody ancestors, day and night every day since she turned 8 droning on and on and whispering and SCREAMING and deafening her with their pleas and suggestions and orders and judgement for her choice of profession, a lowly mage, not even allowed into the Fetchers’ university, like some Telvanni rubble, her choices in life, her voyage onto the land of their ancestral enemies, judging, screaming, whispering, overloading her with their chatter their memories their hopes dreams fears hate love-.

Dunmers are supposed to revere and venerate their ancestors. She, on the other hand, can’t help but curse them, the bastards.

She mumbles, hand to her head as she can feel yet another headache coming. Lucien doesn’t seem to notice, but her new dog is. The small pupper, Styx, a being out right from a conjurer’s worst nightmare, budges against her leg with a soft whine, worryingly looking up her master with the bright, pleading stars she has for eyes. She attempts a smile, the soft, shadowy doggo momentarily drowning Her Ancestors’ whining with her mere presence, soothing her a little.

She had met the eldritch beast near the Lover’s Stone, her master’s corpse nearby, surprisingly docile as she approached her, as if she was waiting for her all along, soothing her with her very presence, dampening her Ancestor’s voices to a managable level... She had to keep her with her, no matter how big she migtht one day grow.

She had been en route from the ruins of Helgen, the place destroyed after a creature out of legends struck it down right as she was passing through it, in the middle of some sort of execution of some dissidents or something.

(she didn’t really care about it, politics and criminals had never been her forte really, much to her grandmas and her dad and all those other fetcher’s horror.

Mom understood tho. She used to anyway, before she died with her father and the 8th legion, leaving her with her heartbroken, demanding, yet loving Grandmas, still alive down south in their home in Bravil...

The only one of her blasted ancestors she wanted to hear, her mom, at least one last time, and she refused to talk, as if she wasn’t there to speak to her in the first place...)

She was just passing through, minding her own business, when a blasted DRAGON attacks the place, scanning the crowd of onlookers, watching the execution, for something or someone...

She was probably one of the few that survived the whole mess, if with a few burns and scraps. Not that she’s complaining really, she managed to meet some hot guy in uniform after all, even ended up meeting his family, she thinks his name was Hadvar, a bit naive, but definitely a catch, helped him fight a bear too, before leaving for her trip to Falkreath’s shrine of Arkay...

(Her hope was the local priests knew of something to keep the blasted ancestors at bay. No such luck unfortunately, and she ended up getting even tasked with fetching the head priest’s journal for him and witnessing a funeral, the whispers loud and bloody clear all the time)...

She shakes her head, Her grip on reality  finally in check thanks to the cute yet slightly terrifying puppy, the whispers momentarily subsided, she looks up, their next destination now in sight.

It’s a dilapidated Nord Tower. The inn keeper at Falkreath had indicated it as a possible place of interest, and she had been planning to go there, snoop in in case it contained some loot or some spell tomes to upgrade her frankly subpar collection of spells, before leaving the hold and taking off toward the next destination in her trip, Riften, where a family friend was supposed to live, a member of house Dreth if she remembers correctly...

Lucien comments on the architecture of the place and she ignores him, the whispers blessedly murmured, as she circumspectly enters the tower. Grass and vegetation as overrun the place, claiming it for its own, and the structure has collapsed ages ago. A chest is standing against a far wall, a severely decayed skeleton corpse resting at its bottom, his armor miraculously intact. Her ancestors whispers grow louder for a second, muttering something about “The Sly” meeting his end, before her eyes lie on the huge, heavy shield, a complicated design engraved onto it.

That thing will fetch her a pretty fortune, she thinks, despite everything still a Hlaalu in blood and flesh, and for once she can feel her Ancestor’s approval at her greed, her desire to gain... Money...

Lucien is in tow, his eyes widening at the shield, as if he’s recognizing it from one of his dusty books, but she doesn’t care, she puts a step forward, eager to get her hands on her prize... only to trip on an upturned root, going face down on the grassy ground with a hump.

Styx yips worriedly behind her, waiting outside the door, and Lucien bumbles his way toward her fallen form to help her back on her feet... Only for the slow, deliberate sound of a blade being drawn to cut the whispers, like a knife through butter.

“Well well well, what do we have here?” A voice says, with a accent similar to the ones the Khajiit in Bravil used to have, and she looks up from her heap on the ground, Lucien frozen in his tracks behind her as he stares in horror, at the armored Khajiit woman now standing between her and the chest, the shield, her sword, so particular in design,help aloof atop her shoulder...

She lowers it toward her chin, slowly tipping the blade against it, not hard enough to draw blood, but forcefully enough to get her head tilted upwards

“Two lost little fools, eager to fall to their doom? Did the Thalmor send you to rat me out, or did you simply wish to... lose your life by my blade?” She humphs, a strange look in her eyes as she tilts away her blade from her prey, leaving her wide eyed on the ground, staring up at her, “Well, I’m not interested. I’m not going to butcher either of you, you are not worthy of my steel, too green, too... weak, killing you would make me no batter than those puffed up fools, wishing to kill the great white stag for some foolish concept of... glory, pfah”

Armidia stares up at her, her voice lost, the whispers, the judgement, they are still there, but is getting drowned out by something within her, something strong, floating into a mindset and a void within her she had never felt before, as she looks up at the dangerous, definitely murderous khajiit, giving her a cocky, self reassured grin, as if she was the strongest swordwoman in the entire world and she knew it too.

Armidia gulps, her throat suddenly dry, as her life is spared with the cock of the Khajiit’s brow, one thought finally crashing and burning into her mind, stronger than Red Mountain’s fire, louder than the screams of her ancestors, giving her one, terrible, absolute command, to fulfill, or die trying...

“I must get rawed by this cat be it the last thing I do.”

[gospelofdismay-a4]

SOUL AND CONTROL

“Why are you writing down an analysis for a character you primarily bring out with friends?” because I’ve lost control of my life, let’s move on.

To give a quick recap on where exactly “Licorice” turned into “Soul”, here’s the lowdown:

After turning into Blotch, he was so distraught by his appearance that he attempted to sleep forever in the ink.

Years later, he found that he’d mutated into a creature that I tend to call Eldritch.

In an attempt to prevent Sammy from killing humans who fell into the trapdoors, Eldritch attempted to use his proxies to protect the humans and free them. However, as with anything like this, some of those humans died and their souls began to cling to him.

After some time of resisting the temptation to eat said souls, he began to eat a couple. A couple turned into a lot. A lot turned into mutating him further, increasing his power and the horrific appearance he has.

With that, he’d risen up to become the god of the studio, generally being the balance between Seraph and Miracle and preventing them from trying too much funny business.

So what does that have to do with Soul’s penchant for control?

A lot.

Edward Kinney was basically the definition of lacking control during his time in Joey Drew Studios. An intern who was constantly bossed around, he knew he was in a position where he didn’t really have many options. By the time Joey called him to his office, Edward was getting comfortable with the studio and was willing to stay as a full-time employee.

Joey fulfilled that little musing, ironically enough.

Licorice was in the same position as Edward, except with a more vital role that only became more vital after the show’s third season. He didn’t really have many choices available to him, although he was more comfortable with it thanks to the presence of his fellow toons and his creator, Henry. In fact, it was Henry who made the whole thing more bearable, and Licorice considered him a father.

Then Joey killed Boris. And Licorice killed Joey. And the massacre began, another loss of control as the former Devil Darling slaughtered those in his way, ink blinding his eyes and screams filling his ears. And thus, when the dust settled, there was just Blotch.

And Blotch, well, he was shocked at what he’d done. But let’s stop there for a second.

So far, you’re probably thinking, "Wow, Deadline, these are all valid reasons for a person to prefer having control of a situation! So what’s the big deal?” And honestly, this is where I truly sigh and pat your shoulder.

Soul actually enjoys having control over a situation. Not just preferring it, no, this is legitimate enjoyment of the idea in his clutches. He has eyes across the studio, he prefers being the dominant one in relationships, and honestly, the biggest thing you can do to fluster this absolute unit is to show you’re going to turn the tables on him.

Combine that with his desire for praise and approval from his loved ones, and you’ve got a massive wreck. He doesn’t even fully realize or vocalize these things, either, but you can notice it in his actions.

These habits are also not intended maliciously, as even despite bitterness over Henry leaving, he’s a lot faster than Blight in forgiving Henry once it’s clear that he’s not going to abandon the studio again.