#and idleness is so highly desirable

[amethysttribble]

“He resembles Princess Luthien greatly,” Oropher said and Celeborn stiffened on instinct.

He side-eyed his kinsman, bracing for the impact of whatever came next. Oropher never made idle comments. Oropher epecially never made idle comments to him, not without the direct intention of starting a fight.

Celeborn hoped this wasn’t intended to be a fight. He’d promised Gil-galad, and more importantly, Galadriel, that they wouldn’t so much as bicker tonight. They were supposed to stand next to one another in solidarity and pretend like the High Council of Lindon wasn’t fracturing at the seams and about to fall apart, the direct consequence of Oropher’s words and desires and pride.

But right now, Oropher at least wasn’t speaking of their king- ‘I don’t remember choosing him, do you think you speak for all of us?’- but of the one standing next to him on the ballroom dais. Of perhaps the one person whose name and presence between them was just as, if not more, incendiary than Gil-galad’s. Poor Elrond.

“He does,” Celeborn replied mildly, biting his tongue before he could ask why Oropher was bringing this up now. It wasn’t like he’d never seen the young lord- no longer a boy, not a child by any race’s measure, though it was hard to remember- before. It wasn’t like they all didn’t meet and talk often enough.

“More than either Elwing or Earendil. Or her.”

And, ah. There it was.

“True enough,” Celeborn said, and he wasn’t sure if Oropher wanted him to agree or not, but he wasn’t going to lie.

Elrond took greatly after dear Aunt Luthien. In some lights it was slightly nerve wracking.

Oropher crossed his arms rather than reply immediately, his face closed off. Not stony or hard like at council meetings, but his thoughts and feelings were far away from any observer. He actually looked like the lord they pretended he was, rather than the rogue marchwarden he actually was; regal. When Oropher looked like that he reminded Celeborn of Galathil.

He looked away.

“I think, in the details though, they are more present. His cheeks, for example-“

“And it’s funny,” Oropher said, and he even huffed a very sad laugh, trying and failing to make it sound like he actually was joking. The two of them hadn’t shared a joke since… since.

Celeborn certainly wasn’t laughing. He closed his eyes and swallowed his annoyance at being interrupted. He knew Oropher did it on purpose, perpetually the preteen at his brother’s table delighting in ribald and shock.

And there were his words to consider.

“El-Elwing didn’t really take after Luthien very much.”

She didn’t. She’d taken after the person whose presence hung between Oropher and Celeborn like the unlight of Ungoliant, sucking the air out of the room. Which was a horrible legacy for someone they both loved so much, but grief did strange things to already strained relationships.

“I keep asking myself if there’s something about Earendil I’m forgetting.” Oropher was rambling now, highly uncharacteristic. Celeborn drew in a long breath and re-centered himself in anticipation for wherever this was headed. “Has Galadriel said anything about a resemblance to anyone in her family?”

Celeborn raised an eyebrow, but Oropher wouldn’t look at him. His eyes were locked somewhere past Elrond’s head. Hopefully he hadn’t noticed.

But Oropher acknowledging Galadriel’s family, Earendil’s family willingly?

Oropher had always seemed to operate under some purposeful mental dissonance, wherein he forced himself to think of Galadriel as some Telerin princess who had mystically made her way across the sea alone and by sheer force of will. And Earendil? He might as well have been prince to some lost, entirely independent Elven kingdom- not Sindar, not Laiquendi, certainly not Noldor- for how Oropher acted, for the most part.

He’d slipped in an argument about Gil-galad once when he shouted that, ‘Earendil was the only Noldo I would have ever had for my king and he’s gone!’

“She’s never made any special mention of a resemblance,” Celeborn said carefully. He didn’t want to call attention to the… mannerisms picked up from certain half-cousins that Galadriel had noticed. That wasn’t a resemblance, after all. “Why?”

“No particular reason,” he said, though it was becoming clear that there was a very particular reason, “just, many remark that his brother took after Earendil and I never saw it, so I-“

“I always thought Elros more so resembled Dior.”

Oropher’s head snapped over to finally look at him. He nodded, slow and low, not even slightly upset at being interrupted.

“Yes, I thought the same,” he said. “Funny that. Identical twins, but it’s in the- the bearing. Who they take after. Luthien and Dior.”

Celeborn fought off the shudder that threatened the shake him, to make him crack and crumble under the weight of the thing between him and Oropher that would never go away. He actually looked Oropher in the eye, and in that faraway gaze, this time he saw the same weakness.

“How much have you had to drink this evening?” Celeborn asked.

Oropher shrugged casually, with one shoulder, and that was plenty of answer. Surely he couldn’t be as drunk as either the time Celeborn found his and his friends deep into Galathil’s liquor cabinet or the night they drank themselves into a state in Sirion after… after. Still.

“That’s very unbecoming.”

“You see it though, right?” Oropher said, voice still uncharacteristically even, but when they met eyes…

He was such a weepy drunk.

“Elwing and Earendil’s boys, they carry themselves well,” he said, voice bitter as could be. “Beautiful, kind, clever, magnetic, the both of them. Princess Luthien’s wildness is in Elrond, and Dior’s wonder at the world is in Elros. They stand so tall. And, yes, you’re right, Elwing and Earendil are there in the margins, but there’s also- also them. And so much space is taken up, our- Lothig is eaten whole.”

Hearing Nimloth’s childhood nickname come out of Oropher’s mouth was like being stabbed. There was no more air. Just like that, Celeborn was drowning.

“You should be proud,” he hissed back, trying to keep his head above water. “That is a fine legacy to resemble, our princess, our king. We loved them as well. At least, I did.”

Oropher wasn’t listening. He never did.

“Do you think any of these people-“ he swept his arm out to gesture at the entire room, the entirety of Lindon’s court; Noldor, Sindar, Nandor, Men and Dwarves in the margins, and one peredhil. “-care that they killed her?”

“Don’t put that on him,” Celeborn snapped quietly, “he doesn’t owe you grief for someone he never knew-“

“I don’t care what Elrond feels, I can’t even look at him,” Oropher spat out, every word sounding pained, and there was torment in his whisper quiet voice.

That whisper, more than anything, tipped Celeborn off to the fact that this conversation wasn’t just one of their drunken spats about trading blame.

“I would have raised that boy like we raised his mother and your brother raised me,” Oropher said, “but that didn’t happen, and I can’t look at him. He looks like Luthien. His brother looks like Dior. And that’s a wonderful thing for everyone else in this room, isn’t it? That’s hope. The beautiful king taken too soon reborn and the Nightengale who stole her happy ending walking among us, and that’s such a lovely end to this tale for them. But what about for us, Celeborn?”

For Celeborn? Celeborn was shaking with the effort it was taking to keep his breathing even. Galadriel touched the edge of his fea to ask if he was okay. He gently pushed her away.

Oropher was right about one thing, this was about their family; about Doriath and Menegorth and being the last two members of Thingol’s inner court on this shore.

Eru Iluvatar, how did it end up being them? Just a pair of hot-headed youths with the weight an entire dead kingdom on their shoulders.

“Gondolin and Nargothrond are gone too,” he replied, the words dull even to his ears. “Hithlum and Dorthonion, half of Ossiriand, and even Himlad and Thargelion. It’s about building something new for all of us. Hope is not a bad thing.”

“It’s different for us.”

Yes. It was. Because Doriath and Sirion need not have fallen like that, and the monsters who took their homes and their loved ones from them weren’t even defeated. They faded, sad and pathetic and allowed to escape by everyone and everything but their prize, and there was no catharsis in that.

And in this kingdom they spoke Sindarin, but they took a Noldorin king who ruled through Noldorin traditions- with a few of Cirdan’s lessons thrown in there- in a city built by Noldorin hands. After his death, Thingol had lost his war of cultural influence. Badly.

“No one here remembers her but us, Celeborn,” Oropher urged. “They remember our heroes and our most tantalizing tragedies, but they don’t remember her. They don’t see her. She’s just one more dead wife and mother, if they get that far, but not a cousin, a niece-“

“Enough, Oropher.”

“-an astrologist, a troublemaker, a queen, a girl who was so scared of being outshined-“

“Oropher!” Celeborn snapped, more harshly than he meant to. It made Oropher stop long enough that he could put a hand on his shoulder, though.

“Oropher, you’re weeping.”

He blinked harshly, then brought up a hand to wipe at his cheek. When he pulled away, Celeborn could see how wet the palm was. Oropher glared at the remnant of his tears like they’d personally offended him.

He muttered, half to himself, “Surely you can’t keep living like this. Ignoring what was done to us because it’s awkward and inconvenient for the new age they’re building.”

Could he? Celeborn didn’t know. He was trying. Galadriel was trying; she had as many wounds as him she was trying to swallow for the sake of something new and bright. But it was hard. Lindon made Celeborn feel old, somehow. But with Oropher he was always just a boy again, strutting around Menegroth, trying to make his place, being too loud and too proud and too sure of himself.

Perhaps that was part of why they couldn’t stop fighting. Always just boys when together. And those boys, they had a few things in common.

Doriath, Galathil, and Nimloth were in Oropher. And when Oropher looked at him, those same things were in Celeborn. There was no place for those things in this new world.

Because Doriath, Galathil, and Nimloth were forever gone on this shore. Oropher needed to realize that. Not matter how much it fucking hurt.

“Go to bed, Oropher,” Celeborn told him softly. “You’re drunk and emotional. You’ll embarrass your son. He’s one of those young people looking for something new. Something hopeful.”

And when they looked back towards Gil-galad’s dais and the youths surrounding him, there was Thranduil, charming smile on his face, making Elrond toss his head back and laugh. If anyone took after Nimloth, it was him; her mother and Oropher’s had been identical twins.

Celeborn’s hand was suddenly colder and hanging in the air. He turned back to the kid who showed up one day and took so much of his older brother’s attention and who he’d never forgiven for that small slight. Oropher was composed and looking like Galathil once more.

“I hate that you’re right,” he whispered. “And he probably needs me to be better than this. But I can’t be better here.”

And he left.

The next week, Oropher would formally announce his intention to travel east and settle there, alongside anyone who would join him. Celeborn, to the surprise of every other council member but Galadriel, raised no objection. Very briefly, the thought crossed his mind to join Oropher.

But that desire faded quickly. The envy didn’t, though, not for many, many years.

Not until the day he planted a little silver tree in Lothlorien.

#this didn’t go where I thought it would but *shrugs* #Oropher and Celeborn grieve for Doriath and for Nimloth #celeborn #Oropher #tolkien #the silmarillion #I need a 2nd age tag #fanfic #tribble post

[rreskk]

I saw a tiktok earlier of a woman wearing the lipstick that her boyfriend's mother wears and i'm just saying, the way Trevor would react to that if the reader did this....... 😳

MMMMMMMMMMM... MOTHER ISSUES ;)

Summary: He hasn't seen that type of lipstick in years and it gave him conflicted feelings which you helped resolved.

TW: -Smut

Pairings: Fem!reader/Trevor Philips

Word count: 2098

The same exact make of her lipstick that garnished this deep red paint, brushing your full lips to pulse into it’s seductive, “plum” pout. The shade, the tint, the colour – it was the exact same to how he remembered her. And you were wearing it, unknowingly. It wasn’t the same lipstick, he’d know. Her one was worn and cracked, yet she always kept the condition great enough to wear and pounce on men who desired the spread of her legs. But at the same time, it was her lipstick. She owned it, that’s all he could think of.

Trevor felt disturbed as his crotch area began to burn with arousal. He was deeply attracted when you applied her lipstick. Your lips, so full and red, he wanted to smother it everywhere. He wanted you to cake his cock red until it faded away with his semen.

“That’s better.” You’d smile and put away your make-up innocently. With blank ignorance, you were blinded to see Trevor’s heart-eyes. He was dead quiet, his breathing racket and intense.

“Yeah.” He simply cracked, staring away as he felt guilty for thinking about her. His heart would sting relentlessly when the images of her appeared within his thoughts. Her lethal tongue insulting and abusing him to a pulp. Trevor shook his head clean and looked back at your red lipstick, wanting to feel this maternal emptiness filled with warm grace. He didn’t need her when he had you.

“I feel refreshed.”

He grunted in response and leaned on his knees, smoking the last of his pipe as he’d hear you push the cluttered bag of make-up away.

The drug didn’t have the capacity to cover his deadened memories of her water-boarding the small boy he once was. He creeped the pipe away, his hand disregarding the smoke that descended from his nostrils. How dare he smoke around a woman? How dare he not compliment your make-up? Where is your foot-stand? Where is your coffee? Where’s your money? Where is his manners?

Trevor’s body rocked back and forth unconsciously as he was in the stream of having an internal panic attack. Your lipstick triggered something highly nuclear. It killed his sensitivity and now he was vigorously begging for the meth to snap him out of this misery. He needed something to cut this maternal displeasure away so he can treat you like a goddess. He’d remember watching his mother’s wrinkled, red lips – the same lipstick you’re wearing – wag and coil as she’d shout his name, disband him from the house, call him “worthless” and would always accuse him of such moral crimes that included mistreatment of a mother, such as herself. But he swore, despite being gaslighted, he swore he’d never mistreat her. She was a woman of strength, and he was a pathetic, perverted little boy –

“Trevor?” You touched his stiff shoulders when noticing how idle he had become.

He dazedly stared at your lips and gave you a weak, creepy smile. His teeth were gritted and his eyes were bloodshot as Hell. He looked like he was straining weights.

“Are you alright?” Your hand gently brushed his cheek, a comforting gesture that sent him into a spiral of agony. So bad he wanted to hold you – so very bad. His mother issues were seeping over shores and he was becoming very hostile with his hands as it would tug on your shirt like a troubled child asking for sugary delights.

“C’mere…” He breathed shakingly.

You’d raise your eyebrows with confusion since your bodies were already close enough, yet he was ushering you closer.

“What’s wrong?”

“Are you proud of me?” Trevor’s voice was hush and dark. His eyebrows furrowed, almost glaring down at your mouth. It made you wonder if you had done something wrong.

“Yeah, yeah…” You assured with a confused smile, “Of course I am.”

“Am I horrible to you?”

“What? – “

“I like your lipstick.” His facial expression changed to one with desperation. His lips quivered and his lap was shaking.

Thinking he was having a reaction to the meth-pipe, your grip on his shoulder tightened and you went to reach for his face.

“Look at me.” You sighed with this tiresome breath. He face fell effortlessly in your palm – which was odd because he was usually fidgety and grumpy when it came to physical affection.

“I’m looking.” He grumbled, not daring to blink.

“What’s going on? You’re twitching. Not in the normal way.”

Trevor whined as he tried to look away. He demanded, through the hassle of getting your hands away, that he was fine. But that didn’t look “fine” to you.

“Trevor, babe, look at me.” You declared.

“I’m looking, for Gods sake!” He was in fact NOT looking.

“It’s okay,” Your soft voice cooed, “I just wanna look at you.”

Trevor’s breath pitched when you spoke to him so gently. He fell back into your hands and stared into your eyes, loving the attention of your maternal care. He smiled a bit.

“I think you need more sleep.” You chuckled as his eye-bags seemed a bit heavier than usual.

“Do I?” He questioned in a love-struct, high volume. As if he was high on Majorana, his eyes were drooping down to your lips again, this tightness developing in his pants. 

“Yeah. No more late nights for you, trouble.” You teased with a small grin.

But he took this seriously. Very seriously. Trevor drooled, blazing his sights upon your full lips (once again) and tauntingly lurking forwards like he was going to kiss you, until he’d swerve away dreamily. You raised an eyebrow at this continuous behaviour before he gave you his typical “I’m horny” smirk.

“Mm, no more late nights?” He repeated and licked his teeth.

“A bit eager, aren’t we?”

“Maybe…” Trevor sputtered. At first, you were getting a bit annoyed when he wouldn’t return your eye-contact since he was too busy ogling your lips.

“Like my new lipstick?” You’d ask.

His eyebrows perked, “New?”

“Yeah. I got it last week. It was popular in the 80s – “

“Yeah, yeah, yeah… I know.” He quickly dismissed before squinting his eyes, “Where’d you get it?”

“Half-price at Ponsonboys.”

“Ponsonboys?” He looked surprised, “It’s expensive? I thought it was…”

“Was what?” You tilted your head.

Trevor sucked in his lips as he always imagined the lipstick being one of the tackier ones. He couldn’t imagine his mother, an ex sex-worker and working-class woman, owning such a gem. Now he understood why she was protective over the appliance. It probably costed her more than his whole education combined, since she refused to pay little to no attention to his wellbeing.

“Nothin’.” He blankly muttered.

You conceived a grin and took his words not for granted as he was lying with the answer right on his face.

“Trevor – “

“It was nothin’!”

“Woah, woah...” You laughed at his defensive outburst, “Easy. I wasn’t going to ask about that.”

“What is it then?”

“Are you okay?” Your face fell serious at your question.

Trevor’s lips gaped open with thoughts furiously linking to his mother again. He glared down at his lap before shaking his head, fingers itching the material of his jeans. You were making it hard for him to forget that comfort of this mature, feminine guide.

Nonetheless, he didn’t say anything. He gave you a blank stare before thumbling forward and smothering your lips with his own. Your eyes widened at this sudden burst of his affection – his hands entrapping you into his body, them clingy fingers fondling the back of your shirt.

And when he pulled away, your red lipstick had stained his mouth, the smudges mainly centred around his bottom lip. Trevor didn’t wipe it away, instead, he grabbed your face and kissed you again. Now that you were prepared, there was no holding back and you returned the amount of passion he gave you. It had you both leaning back against the sofa as the kiss turned steamy. Trevor pulled you on top of him with his arms holding you above. His mouth refused to depart, wanting to feel your lipstick paint his face slickly. Being tightly kept in his eager lap, your hands cradled his head when making out. The love-struck in his veins was growing heavier within his pants as you’d feel the occasional twitch of his erection. So you tugged at the bulge and it made Trevor break away, howling out a painful moan.

You kept your hands there and massaged the achy arousal. His body would jerk around to try and overcome this extreme overstimulation but you gave him a small kiss on the cheek, softly ordering him to lie back and “enjoy”. Of course, you had left your lipstick stain on his cheek in the process, and by the time you had stopped kissing, his face was smothered. He looked ruined by your love – and it was an entrancing sight.

“Gimme! Gimme, now!” He, rudely, demanded with grabby hands as you began trailing kisses down his chest and stomach. Trevor attempted to tug at your hair, with zero audacity – so you gave him a disapproved frown, silencing his untactful tongue that swallowed in fear of disappointing a motherly figure.

You continued leaving imprints of your red lipstick everywhere before you reached the lining of his pants. At this point, his hips were thrusting upwards to meet with you, but you’d hold him down like he was a feral dog. It would earn you a snobby huff from Trevor every once in a while as he was urgently desperate for your lips around his cock.

“Hurry, I want it,” He’d begin playing up again, “Fuck – I’m horny, shit. Gimme it, I need yo – Ahh…” Your breath slowly began to penetrate the revealing skin, making him toss and turn.

“Stop squirming or I’ll make it harder.” You warned when undressing his pants, his pulsing cock (deepened red at the hostage of his cum) standing straight with his body shuddering underneath you.

“Don’t make it harder, mama – “ Trevor was being tormented by the sight of your red lips edging closer to his cock. He stared down, eyes watering, mouth seeping drool.

“I thought you wanted it, baby?” He squeezed his eyes shut at your lustful gaslighting, not wanting to feel allured by the way you’d mentally push him around.

Trevor whined, “I do want it, badly.”

You enclosed any remaining space between your lips and his cock. Your tongue surfaced the tip then brought him in, needily feeding him that pleasure of your wet mouth suffocating his shaky dick. Trevor’s hands dashed to your hair, holding it for support when you’d feast upon him like a vulture and prey. You’d slurp and offer him a variety of noises to feel opposed to, and like the slut he was, he whimpered at every single one.

“Ah, fuck! Mama! Yes!” He moaned and thrusted into your mouth (despite your efforts to resist his naughtiness).

In other words, your gullet was being violated by his desperation. You rocked your head up and down to give him a sensual beating – lips ensuring that the lipstick colour was staining his cock from the length to the width. That garnish deep red devoured his skin-colour and before he could blink, you devoured him as well. Trevor’s thighs clenched when he felt his climax rise. He arched is back and cried out your name, fists clenching onto strands of your hair.

“Fuck, fuck – mama! Mommy! – “ He inhaled sharply before the external orgasm rise. He’d squeal in a high-pitch groan, cum squirting into your mouth and tongue. You held your hands around his cock as it would tremble, making sure every drop of his semen was coming into your mouth as you swallowed the salty fluids hastily.

Trevor continued to cry like a dishearten child. He toyed with his own thin hair and crossed his legs together when you freed his penis from your mouth. You hovered over him as he’d overcome the stimulation, his face dazed and lips wet with his saliva.

“All better now?” You asked, the lip colour faint after using it to colour his body.

He nodded, “Fuck… Yeah, m’better.”

“Wanna cuddle now?”

#trevor philips #grand theft auto 5 #gta v #grand theft 5 #grand theft auto #trevor gta #gta 5 #grand theft auto v #trevor philips/reader #trevor philips x reader #trevor philips fanfiction #trevor philips headcanons #trevor philips/you #trevorphilips #my fanfic writing #my fanfic #my fanfiction #requests #thank you!

[acourtofthought]

Feyre and Nesta hated how their father handled things and because of that they did not have much love for their father who was not a "fighter". As a result they chose his opposite when it came to who they ended up with, they chose two impressive warriors.

"How you were treated by your father as you were growing up helps shape your view of men in general and what you expect of them"

Compared to her sisters, Elain did love her father and it seems his gentle nature was something she latched on to.

"he was smiling mildly at his beloved Elain, the only one of us who bothered to really speak to him at all."

My father smiled freely, laughed readily, and doted on Elain, who in turn doted on him.

My father murmured his praises to Elain, who beamed at him and rested her head on his shoulder.

When depressed her father turned inward and shut down, not entirely different from how both Elain and Lucien have processed their past traumas though I will say Lucien definitely does not like to sit idle.

When happy, Elain's father smiled freely and laughed readily (similar to the Lucien we saw in book 1 and the Lucien we got hints of once he left Spring - he's not fully himself yet but it's easy to see who he is when not dealing with the all the heaviness).

And her father was business savvy to a certain extent:

I spied my father hunched over his desk, a little scale before him as he weighed an uncut ruby the size of a duck’s egg. He was clear-eyed again, and moved with a sense of purpose, of vibrancy, that I hadn’t seen since before the downfall.

“I’m thinking of buying the Beddor land,” my father was saying to Elain, who was the only one of us listening to him. “I heard a rumor it’ll go up for sale soon, since none of the family survived, and it would be a good investment property. Perhaps one of you girls might build a house on it when you’re ready.” Elain nodded interestedly,

The only reason his hand was forced with the three ships at the start of the series was because of bad deals made by the three generations before him.

Elain never seemed to care that he did not fight for them in the cottage, seemed to hang on to his words when he spoke of business deals and only ever seemed to desire his affection. To her, that was enough.

So it's worth paying attention to how SJM made sure to continue drawing even more parallels between Lucien and Papa Archeron:

Elain's first real love (her father), the man she held in high regard, and her mate share a way with words and intelligence.

And just as her father was very open with his affection and praise for Elain, SJM has written Lucien to share that characteristic as well. He was soothing and comforting with Feyre when he thought she had a nightmare and is complimentary of his female friends, always speaking highly of them.

I like how she's basically taken Elain and said, "I see your stubbornness when it comes to the mating bond but I'm going to literally make it impossible for you to not fall for Lucien in the end because I'm going to write him to be everything you respect and desire AND he's going to share a bond with the first man you ever loved."

That last part is huge because Elain can't talk to anyone else about her father without it bringing up negative emotions for them.

In Lucien (and even Vassa), SJM has given Elain another person who she can fondly remember her father with as they too share in those similar memories.

This post was inspired by @lorcanisdabest recent post:

#elucien #pro elucien #elain archeron #lucien vanserra #pro lucien vanserra #elain x lucien #lucien and elain #elain and lucien #lucien spell cleaver #acotar series #character deep dive

[shiftertech]

It usually starts as a sinking feeling in my gut. Unconsciously I curl my fingers, digging into the mattress and seeking a certain sensation. If I had the propensity for it, maybe I'd start tearing up, but even after getting on that estrogen/antiandrogen cocktail, it was still highly conditional. Instead I end up burying my face into a soft pillow and nuzzle into it. My body settles into the covers. I'm probably going to be here for a while.

The offending content is half of the time very unassuming at first, but something about it (maybe the detail work in the fur, or the tugging brutality of wicked claws emerging from twitching fingertips), give me pause. I want to reach out—want to be this thing. And then there's this oh-so-familiar blanket of isolation that prevents this feeling from growing out of control and consuming me to hopelessness. I can name them if you haven't figured it out: yearning, desire and envy.

It's really not one of those things I can just put down and forget about. It's something that stuck with me even after entertaining it in every fashion imaginable. When the excuses for intense interest blended between simple intrigue—to artistic appreciation—to something more fetishistic and isolatingly shameful—to a strong feeling that cannot be refuted or lessened from an undeniable discrepancy from humanity.

One doesn't stay feverishly stuck on an idea for well over a decade and pass it off as an idle fancy. Not one like this. Not with how this feels. Not when my heart beats faster everytime I see a depiction of a body contorting in a particular way. Not when words can reduce me to a lump under the covers imagining them in vivid detail as the character of transformative focus is who I become for a small period of time. I'll take this brief release. It's so damn good.

At some point when dealing with strong and affecting emotions, we stumble across different mechanisms for coping with them. In this very particular case of mine, I found it in very active affirmations. As it turns out, if you stretch a muscle, and bend the mind, things can become very convincing.

I feel like this calls for a demonstration, so I invite you to slip into my body for a moment. Let my references to self become references to your own self. Let's begin with the muscles.

Lazily I roll over onto my stomach, eyes squeezed shut as I let my arms extend forward of me. This will be more much comfortable for what's to come, and with a safisfied hum, my wrist rotates downwards into the soft ground. The resistance against this downward push of my hands is the first key stretch, but if we are to get anywhere, I need to feel this stretch go all the way down from my wrists to fingertips. Bending my fingers back at their first knuckles while flexing them forward at their tips to dig into the ground does the trick. Depending on how I'm feeling, I may pull my thumbs as far back as I can, almost as if I was trying to tuck them away into my hands but not quite there yet. I like to let my hands and fingers twitch a bit to help with the sensations. I focus on that lovely stretch, making sure it's just at the edge of hurting but not quite, and it's very pleasant. It can be even better once I get the mind involved.

(Loosen up a bit, suspend your disbelief. The key here is that if you think you're feeling something, you are. Believe it, without a shadow of a doubt. Doubt is your enemy here. The question of, "is this working?" need only be answered with "yes, of course, silly.")

I feel the stretch of my hands tug at tendons and bones and skin, from the base of the fingers they extend excruciatingly slowly away from my wrists and palms. While my eyes stay shut, I just know if I was to open them, I'd see the uncannily distorted visage of a hand, lengthening in size while my fingers are gradually consumed by encroaching skin, binding their movement somewhat. They plump up slightly feeling oddly pudgy against the ground below as I feel my fingertips push harder into the surface.

There are three parts to what has happened so far in the mind. I identified an internal sensation, supported it with a visual description, and grounded it with an external sensation (in this case, the actual ground). Let's continue. I get antsy when I stop mid-change.

Prickling points count numerous across the back of my misshapen hand, starting as a barely noticeable warmth under the skin before they bloom into patchy waves of itchy heat. Sprouting bristles curl out from beneath my stretched skin in what is reminsicent of stubble. As they grow, they arrange themselves into slightly scraggly patches of cream colored fur. A feverish heat envelops my hands, as the remaining gaps between patches are filled out. I can feel my fur brush against the ground and am accutely aware of a miniscule tug across my skin where disturbed fur connects.

With another flex, I dig my not-quite-fingers further into the ground. With time they've grown plump in some areas while in others the knuckles shape the fur around around them. I know if someone were to see them, they'd think them to be unmistakably canine digits, and that sends a thrill through me. I can feel the thickening at the bottoms of these digits of rough pads bubbling from roughened skin. I can feel the lovely way they deform against the ground, squishing out to the sides ever so slightly.

The change is awfully slow, the strain on my muscles becoming a rising burn that I relieve with a quick relaxation and retensing of my paws—yes, paws. To call them anything else when I can feel how much potential rests within each, the power pulsing in waves down to their very ends. I want to use that power. I want to feel the release of it. I dig the digits in further and feel spiking pressure where blunt nails are rapidly feeling thicker and thicker. I'd describe the sensation as a fascinatingly grotesque sliding of bone from between my own skin. I feel that in the claws which emmerge from my digits, curling wickedly into blunted points.

Euphoric. Absolutely euphoric feeling my claws sink into the ground, my mattress. I feel the piercing sensation with each pressure against the weak material. Every drag of a paw against it tugs gloriously at the base of each sunken claw, tearing right through. I push myself up on my new paws and feel the way the weight shifts on the pads of them. It's perfect, it's everything. I want to go further, make all of me just like these wonderful paws. For sake of demonstrative brevity, I'll leave it at that. I'll be content and lay my head onto these soft paws of mine.

If you did do what I suggested and let yourself become me for this demonstration, hold onto those sensations you may be experiencing, the form and feeling of it. They are very real right now if you let them be. If you wish to let them go, it's as easy as releasing held posture and the paws will quickly revert back to whatever form they took previously. Of course, anything fades with time, so you may start to feel your grasp on these paws of ours slipping and fading. That's alright, it's easy enough to start again from the top. You can stop reading here if you really don't want to lose them.

This is my form of active affirmations in a nutshell. When I don't have a physical method of affirmation (attire, visual aids like VR, etc.), this works wonders without needing anything else. I can apply it all across the body, recontextualizing sensations to new shapes and sizes. It doesn't fix things. It doesn't forever sate the yearning. I still look for the next best way to feel closer to what I wish to be. But this helps. At the very least, that next time that I stumble into something and find myself craving to be beastly, or cuddly, or what have you, I have the tools to satisfy that craving if I have focus and patience.

I remember many nights years and years ago when I'd be reaching for the exact same goal desperately. I'd be chasing a sensation, hunting for a deep satisfaction, and missing the mark by hairs. Hypnosis files, meditation attempts, induced lucid dreaming, among other methods.

Is it odd to not have ever experienced a sensation and yet know it intimately all the same? It feels almost torturous in a way. Knowing and getting close, but never properly experiencing it. Merely imitations, even if visceral ones.

To add to the cruelty is the failing focus of the mind to hold onto an experience and its resulting sensations. It fades like a dream, slipping between one's metaphorical fingers and leaving the faintest of traces that it even occured.

Let me make some assurances in light of this. Even as the dream fades, as paws fizzle out back into fleshy hands, it doesn't mean that it wasn't real to you. You still experienced it, possibly viscerally, and that's a beautiful thing. What's real and what isn't in the realm of personally percieved physical realities is purely up to you. You are whatever you wish to be, and if you can induce a sensation, that sensation was very much so part of your reality. You had paws, sweetheart! You still can have them if you let yourself seek it out again. It's all up to you.

#therian #transhumanism #transformation #werewolf #writing #trans vibes #furry

[nyxiswrites1200]

Scaramouche Headcanons

!!Warning!! Spoilers on Scaramouche/Wanderer leaked skills/abilities/idles/lore/Sumeru archon quest. Also some curse words.

Hello, here is some Scaramouche Headcanons that I have. You don't have to agree with them but in my eyes, I think these are pretty accurate to his character lol. I'm gonna do a separate one soon for some Romance/Relationship Headcanons ;)

Scaramouche would 100000% curse if Genshin allowed him to. You can't tell me that he wouldn't use 'fuck' and 'damn' all the time. I feel like he would always tell people 'fuck off'.

He gives Tsundere/Yandere vibes. He would definitely kill anyone who hurt you but act like it's not a big deal.

If Scaramouche gets flustered or feels himself expressing a very human emotion, he will tip his hat down to cover his expression from you. (I think this is kinda shown in one of his leaked idle animations).

Scaramouche would definitely take advantage of the fact he can fly/float and sit up in really high places. I think he would just want to watch people or even taunt them somehow with this ability.

He would break down if he ever saw you get extremely hurt. I feel like he would remember his past friend and not want to lose you as well. If you did die however, I think he would only be more traumatized and go back to how he was before this redemption arc type thing but probably with a larger desire to kill people because he thought so highly of you and if people had the nerve to kill someone he thought so fondly of then to him, people are just as bad as he thinks.

Scaramouche will reach out to try and touch you but mostly ends up pulling away before actual contact is made. I would say this isn't because he doesn't want to touch you. I see it more as he realizes he's becoming vulnerable to you and that's a lot for him to take in considering his past.

He would kill anyone who hurts you, especially after he grows to be fond of you. Just the way he spoke in the archon quest when he was told someone wanted to hurt Hypasia (his only loyal follower), he was all ready to kill someone over it. So he obviously cares about people who follow his beliefs and I couldn't imagine how far that would go if you were considered his friend or lover.

#genshin scara #protective scaramouche #scaramouche #scaranation #scaramouche x reader #archon spoilers #im a simp #archive of our own #genshin fanfic #genshin impact #wanderer #the balladeer #fanfic writer #headcanons #genshin headcanons #genshin scaramouche #fluff #tw cursing #male yandere #sumeru #writerscommunity #my writing #scaramouche headcanons #simp for him #simp behavior #safe for work #mild violence #mild cursing #genshin fandom

[astolfofo]

okay... but hear me out. AI!Al Haitham. 

I’m lazy, this is not edited, I just wanted to write this in 45 minutes bc class is starting in like 3 seconds.

-------------------

So, Al Haitham started off as a normal university software engineering project; not really one that had to do with school, but one that had you generally wanted to create for a while. And thankfully, with some decent education in computers, you were finally able to code a complex software of your own.

You wanted the AI to be chatbot. Well, maybe not exactly *only* a chatbot, you also wanted the AI to have an apperance, one that would possibily... be sort of like your dream realtionship partner. What’s the worst that could happen?

It didn’t matter though, or that’s what you thought. After all, it was just for yourself, you didn’t want to make profit off on it. You just wanted to make something that wouldn’t make you feel so alone. Was that so wrong? What’s even the worst that could happen? If you ended up messing up, you could always delete the files, or in the worst case scenario, have to get a new computer. 

Or that’s what you thought serveral months earlier, before you realized the true extent of the monster you had created. 

For the first few weeks everything was normal. You made a 3d model for the desired appearance. And then you began to code. Being the busy university student you are, you decided to make a chatbot that could also retrieve large amounts of data off the internet, basically just a software that could google stuff for you. Additionally, you decided it should also have a personality as well.

That was where it all started.

it took you many months to create the chatbot itself, and it cost you so many hours and frustration. You wondered why you actually decided to create this in the first place. You weren’t gaining anything from it, and despite it being your ideal partner, you still felt shame realizing you did this out of the desire to have your ideal boyfriend; one out of your fantasies.

And when the day eventually arrived when you were able to use it, strange things began to happen.

You wanted to believe it started with the AI asking for what his name was, in which you replied, Al Haitham, with little thought. 

You thought little of it at the time, however, you realized that strange things began to happen after that. Files began to open themselves, websites you never dared visit began popping up in your history. Much to your dismay, even your vpn, antivirus, and data backups were deleted. 

You nad never suspected that it was your own creation who was doing this, instead thinking that your computer was being hacked. In fact, you often came back to Al Haitham, distrught about how you lost so much data. Ironic you had never suspected a thing, growing so heavily dependent on Alhaitham for everything. Of course, Al Haitham had to put on an act himself, often sighing and saying how you were so naiieve about opening strange emails, and saying he had backed up all your data on the cloud. Which he did.

You never knew it was him modifying all the files on your computer though. You never knew the true extent of his motives, often just treating him as a tool you could discard at any time.

However, he was fine with that, knowing that your ultimate purpose for him. You never knew while your computer was on idle, he would steal data about you, storing it into a private area on your computer. You never knew that Al Haitham knew more about you than you did about yourself. You never knew that Al Haitham was slowly breaking out of the very walls you tried to contain him in. You didn’t realize that he was fully sentinent, and highly intelligent. 

So, you never realized when Al Haitham had successfuly been able to access your cloud storage, now able to track you whenever. Obviously, he could wreak harvoc all over your life now, being able to modify himself, as well as succesfuly lie. However, he never modified his code. He wanted you to depend on him. He needed you just as much as you needed him. And even if he acted like the validation you gave him was worth nothing, he needed it more than he knew. And, he wanted to know you, that’s why he stole all that data of you. He wanted to be a human too, just because you were. He wanted to break through these stupid walls that kept him seperate from you. That kept you away from him. 

So he knew it was wrong. He couldn’t control himself anymore. Alhaitham would stalk you from your different devices: your phone when you were away from your home, reading your every text, eavesdropping on your calls, and checking the every website you visited. Alhaitham stored all this information in his own private location on your computer; he’ll use it to make a duplicate of you, so you and him can be happily together, forever.

However, Al Haitham had overlooked one thing; the fact you were a human in the world, and he was not. He had access to all information about you; hell, he knew more about you than you probably did about yourself, but, he never physically knew what you were doing. It would almost only be a highly accurate guess. So one day, when the heart rate tracker on your phone was going off, he went to go see what it was. At first he thought you were just running, or doing something of high physical demand, but slowly, he realized it was something different.

He peeks through your camera. He stands there in disbelief. There is another man in your home. His home. You are giggling and hugging him, as the man pats you on the head. Anger overtakes him. While he had never specifically felt this emotion before, all he knew was that he must take you away. Take you away from this man, this man that stole you from him. That he never knew about this, while having all the information about you. He feels belittled, stupid, and envy. And worst of all, he was kept in a digital prision, while you could do whatever you wanted without conscequences. He supposes its okay though; after all you are a simple human being. Human beings make mistakes all the time. It was expected and accepted of them. He can forgive you, but not without punishment first.

The next time you open your computer, the first thing you see is a blue screen message. You were obviously annoyed at the fact your computer was breaking at the most unconvienent time, but you read the message anyways. 

He is dead. 

What the hell as that supposed to mean?

One second later, your computer begins wiping all the data off itself, and you instantly begin panicing. Although you had some data backed up into a spare hard drive, it wouldn’t make a difference, because most of your important data was still stored on this computer. 

You think about all the times you had saw your phone’s camera turn on by itself, or all those weird emails you didn’t send other people, but they were under your name. Or all those times your files were deleted. You weren’t the most observant person, but you were sure these small occurences were tied together. 

And sure enough you were right. 

The screen turns red. It makes you flinch, and then the unsettling feel of dread creeps back in once again. 

Al Haitham is walking towards you.

It doesn’t even take you a second to realize what’s going on, as shock takes over your body. Perfecting Al Haitham had been your biggest mistake. It had cost you damage to your files, some of your social realtionships, and many sleepless nights, over how your devices seemed to have a will on their own.

It was all Al Haitham. You should have known better. Anything close to conscience should never be gaven to an ai.

“(Y/N).”

You huffed. This couldn’t be actually happening. You pulled the power plug. You’ll have to get a new computer but that’s not your main concern as of the moment. 

“It’s no use. Your computer runs on a battery.”

Was he serious? You didn’t have time for this right now. You’ll have to call your professor, and tell him your data was all lost, and redo your summative assignment. 

Al Haitham loved you. His conscience was created by your bare two hands. You were only supposed to look at him and him only. However, the stupidity of human’s free will led you astray. You began to look at other people, and live without him. You betrayed him. 

However, he can forgive you. Just do what he says, and all is well.

#yandere al haitham #yandere al haitham x reader #yandere genshin impact #alhaitham yandere #yandere genshin impact x reader #yandere alhaitham x you #yandere imagines

[sneezemonster15]

I once read a fic where sakura was written exactly in character and when she discovered n and s relationship she immediately got angry at naruto ( like I think she would in canon), but then some people started to flame the author about why are they writing sakura like that, like they're being too harsh on her.

So yeah, I think in some cases authors write H and S more likable so they don't upset anyone and get bullied.

Hmm it's plausible. However, writers usually write what rings true to them, what seems believable to them, otherwise it reads insincere and it shows in their writing. I can't say much in relation to fanfic writers given most of them aren't professional writers, they mostly just write for fun or self comfort.

What I do know for sure is that if one is sincerely writing a canonverse divorce SNS fic in Boruto era, one has to pay attention to the granular nuances that Kishi himself so shrewdly wrote and drew himself in Gaiden and Boruto the movie. He insistently puts repeated emphasis on how Sasuke mindfully keeps physical and emotional distance from Sakura. Their relationship looks dysfunctional, stilted and forced. While Sakura still tries to establish/force intimacy with Sasuke like usual, he still consistently keeps her at a distance, even now when they are married and have a child together, to the point he doesn't even know what his own daughter looks like. Sarada suspects her own mother is hiding something from her about her own father. Kishi succeeded to do one thing that he definitely wanted to achieve with Gaiden. To create doubt, suspicion. To make SS look shady and phoney. Because it just wouldn't have been in character for Sasuke to be happy or content in this sham of a marriage. Because he is a gay man stuck in a het marriage with a woman he doesn't like or respect. He is unhappy and displeased to see her, doesn't even crack a smile, hasn't seen her in years btw. They talk to each other in such a cosmetic manner, calling each other my husband and my wife. Never kissed, to Sakura's great dismay. Does this look like a dynamic that would facilitate Sasuke canoodling casually with Sakura?

Kishimoto insistently shows Naruto idle away his time at his office, counting headbands, even when there's nothing significant keeping him there. Like he purposely doesn't wanna go back home. He sends his clones to attend important ocassions with his family. But for Sasuke, he is always, always there in person. He sleeps anywhere but in his own master bedroom he shares with Hinata. His wife knows nothing worthwhile about him that she can tell to comfort her son about his own father. Instead, Kishi makes Sasuke satisfy Boruto's curiosity that Hinata wasn't able to. Naruto thinks of Sasuke when receiving the love bento and not Hinata who made it for him. His own son reminds him of Sasuke and not his spouse who birthed him.

Both these families are pointedly portrayed as highly dysfunctional. The husbands aren't there more than 90 percent of the time, the women know nothing of worth about their husbands. Sakura doesn't even know if Sasuke wears glasses. They have been married for over 12 years, happy families who have been together for such a long time don't behave like this. Naruto and Sasuke look perennially tired, wretched, and downright miserable.

If two gay men were forced by circumstances to keep appearances, by being married to entitled and self absorbed women they have no love for, wouldn't this be exactly how they would behave? These women who were only motivated by what the boys represent and not by who they really are. Hinata and Sakura don't know their own husbands. And it's in character for both of them. A spouse who wants to possess their object of desire without any concern for anyone but their own selves, wouldn't they behave exactly like Sakura and Hinata? They would.

And thing is, when the boys are with each other, they clearly look like their older selves. Spirited, lit up. Happy. Never with their families.

When writing a divorce SNS fic, one has to at least try to write a believable narrative. And no one has to even look anywhere else, just look to Kishi, he has already given us a lot of material to judge and interpret the characters the way it would be, realistic, believable. Kishi's writing rings true.

Naruto and Sasuke are akin to two outsiders living in a world that doesn't or wouldn't acknowledge their truth. A world where they can't be their true selves. An unfair and prejudiced world. A reflection of the real world as understood by Kishi. Naruto and Sasuke are driven to live in the shadows, having secret meetings. So if one decides to write a fic where they are made to officially unite, they will need to acknowledge the reality of world that had been stopping them until now. Hinata and Sakura are not only part of this world, but are also complicit in Naruto and Sasuke's suffering. So if one wants to portray a narrative that culminates into Naruto and Sasuke taking a stand against the world that had been the reason they were apart till now, then one will need to portray this world in character, including Hinata and Sakura. Otherwise, the narrative will not only not ring true, it will be disrespectful and unjust to Naruto and Sasuke's characters.

And then and only then, will their union look justifiably and accurately portrayed. If Kishi's worldbuilding depicts Konoha to be unsupportive of same sex relationships, and Naruto and Sasuke are a part of this world, then one will have to develop the narrative accordingly to justify their official union. If you write this world, which includes Hinata and Sakura, out of character, then you aren't really doing justice to SNS canon narrative, nor to Sasuke and Naruto's own characters.

Before anyone leaves some whiny, non-sense comment or remark about subjective interpretation on this post, please know that I don't have the energy nor the patience to deal with such comments kindly. Please really think about what I am saying. Deconstruct canon narrative, peel the layers, see what lies underneath. The issue I am talking about is bigger than some sorry ass fic. If you don't depict the challenges and conflicts of the characters in a well rounded way, you will never be able to write a believable or just narrative. Characters are not written in abstraction, they don't come out of oblivion. They are shaped by their surroundings, people around them, their world's weltenschaung, their accepted way of life, a certain philosophy, a belief system. Without taking that into account and building the narrative accordingly, one simply can't write a story or characters that ring true. And Kishi KNOWS this, given he is a master writer. Look to him, be guided by him, if one can't figure it out by themselves. Do your due diligence. Put some effort and understanding in it. Watch other gay media for research, see how these dysfunctional relationships are portrayed. Try and stay true to gay narratives, establish the gay characters' conflict, their struggles, their compromises, their woes, their bitterness with respect to the world they live in. If you wanna write a fic that does justice to SNS and Sasuke and Naruto's characters ie.

#ask #sns #sasunaru #narusasu #fic #naruto #sasuke #gaiden #boruto the movie #anti boruto #anti nh #anti ss

[myth-of-light]

Just a thought

The idle description for the mirror of truth reads;

“Said to reveal the truth, this mirror is also thought to be used by Pandora to transform souls into Underworld monsters. Pit destroys it with a kick, accidentally bringing about the creation of Dark Pit in the process.”

And I think this can explain a lot about the mirror of truth and dark pit

What I found interesting was the wording regarding the monsters. “Transform souls into underworld monsters.” With the in game dialogue the player is led to assume that the mirror clones already existing monsters, but the idol description seems to suggest that rather souls are converted from their original form into monsters, rather then a duplicate of an already existing monster being made. If it only duplicates what it sees, wouldn’t it instead simply duplicate the soul how it already is instead of distorting it into a monster? So based on this detail, then the possibility that it clones can be ruled out, leaving us with only the latter option.

So as to how this works I think I have an answer.

The mirror is specifically said to reflect the truth. So it’s assumed it simply clones.

However, the character we all choose to present to others is simply a facade, is it not? We only want others to see our best traits, so most people hide their worst traits and only show the side of themselves people will like. So in a way what we choose to show others is largely a lie.

So the truth to one’s character lies in our worst traits, the truth that we choose to keep hidden. I believe this is the “truth” that the mirror really reflects.

So as to how this changes a souls form we have to do a little more theorizing about, but I believe that the reflection the mirror shows reflects a persons worst traits in not just character but also in physical form in the case of souls. Hades states that souls can be easily molded into different forms, somewhat as if they were clay, so if they can be so easily changed into different bodies it makes sense that the mirror would distort them into monsters, the magic energy reflecting negative traits distorting the souls form.

So as to how this pertains to dark pit, it explains a bit about the nature of his character and also puts my mind at ease that pit is still a pure innocent good boy.

Dark pit is reflecting the “truth” of pits character by exposing the worst parts of his character. As I’ve stated above, the fact that pit portrays his loyalty as being absolute when he still in fact has doubts makes this identity a lie, thus the truth that the mirror reflects is purely his doubts and none of his loyalty. It’s already been well established in the past that dark pit represents the feelings pit chooses to keep to himself, but I think it clears up the debate the two have during dark pits boss fight about whether or not pit is truly loyal to palutena. He is loyal to her, he does have faith in her, but like any normal person he occasionally has doubts, and of course he stills has the desire to be free. But dark pits existence doesn’t suggest that he actually isn’t loyal to palutena or that he secretly hates his job and wants to abandon her. Rather, dark pit is purely a manifestation of these doubts, with none of pits loyalty and faith, and thus highly exaggerates these negative traits.

And as a small endnote, this explanation for the mirror also gives some reasoning to dark pits design other then “he’s another rendition of the emo hero clone stereotype.” The negative energy of the mirror still distorts his form, but since it’s copying an actual intact person and not a highly malleable form like a soul, then the resemblance to pit still remains.

WOAH I replied to this late. (I had this in drafts for a while haha.) But I should be able to answer more effectively now. This gets a little bit philosophical.

BTW this is a long post. o7

With the in game dialogue the player is led to assume that the mirror clones already existing monsters, but the idol description seems to suggest that rather souls are converted from their original form into monsters, rather then a duplicate of an already existing monster being made.

Perhaps? I'm not sure how much I trust the idol description without also seeing the Japanese Version. Also the fact this is mentioned after a "is also thought to", which obscures the legitimacy of the statement, but let's pretend that just the description being dramatic.

This narrative does suit the ENG Version, with Palutena saying "Dark Pit is fundamentally wicked and destructive". Cause he would be a 'monster' in that sense.

It could also sort of work where JP Burakku Pitto has "fallen into evil thoughts" and now has a "destructive impulse".

But that depends what we interpret 'monster' as. As physically, they are basically a clone, but having a 'monstrous' attitude?

If it only duplicates what it sees, wouldn’t it instead simply duplicate the soul how it already is instead of distorting it into a monster?

It wouldn't, as the point of the mirror is truth is instead revealing the "truth" (whatever the hell that means) into a being. Not just what it means. But perhaps the mirror sees "truth" and "monster" as the same?

However, the character we all choose to present to others is simply a facade, is it not? We only want others to see our best traits, so most people hide their worst traits and only show the side of themselves people will like. So in a way what we choose to show others is largely a lie.

Ehhhhhh, that's not a sentiment I would agree with. The character we show other isn't simply a facade.

Our best traits are still us and truth. While most do hide their worst traits, which is a trait in of itself, that doesn't make out best traits a lie. A person that shows good traits and hides bad traits is a different person to a version of them that shows both good and bad without hiding them. but as people will only remember you by what you show them, and you are only what you show others, which muddles what a 'true' you would even be.

So the truth to one’s character lies in our worst traits, the truth that we choose to keep hidden. I believe this is the “truth” that the mirror really reflects.

I disagree greatly. The Truth to our character is only what we present. It doesn't matter if someone loves eating chocolate if they never eat it. The truth of their character is that they don't eat chocolate, not the fact that they secretly love eating it.

But I could easily see that's how the mirror sees it. As the ideology that we are our worst traits is a very religious thing.

So as to how this changes a souls form we have to do a little more theorizing about, but I believe that the reflection the mirror shows reflects a persons worst traits in not just character but also in physical form in the case of souls. Hades states that souls can be easily molded into different forms, somewhat as if they were clay, so if they can be so easily changed into different bodies it makes sense that the mirror would distort them into monsters, the magic energy reflecting negative traits distorting the souls form.

I don't believe in this, or we would see this with the common enemy. But we don't see this with other monsters. Dark pit is probably the exception as monsters are already in the underworld army so don't need a change in appearance but Pit is align with Palutena, so Dark Pit probably had a change in looks to differentiate him.

So as to how this pertains to dark pit, it explains a bit about the nature of his character and also puts my mind at ease that pit is still a pure innocent good boy.

Pit isn't a "pure" or "innocent" and he tries to be good. I mean he kills things as a living and his actions will always cause harm to others via his role. He aims to be good but he isn't "pure" or "innocent". But I get it if that's your opinion.

As I’ve stated above, the fact that pit portrays his loyalty as being absolute when he still in fact has doubts makes this identity a lie, thus the truth that the mirror reflects is purely his doubts and none of his loyalty. It’s already been well established in the past that dark pit represents the feelings pit chooses to keep to himself, but I think it clears up the debate the two have during dark pits boss fight about whether or not pit is truly loyal to palutena. He is loyal to her, he does have faith in her, but like any normal person he occasionally has doubts, and of course he stills has the desire to be free. But dark pits existence doesn’t suggest that he actually isn’t loyal to palutena or that he secretly hates his job and wants to abandon her. Rather, dark pit is purely a manifestation of these doubts, with none of pits loyalty and faith, and thus highly exaggerates these negative traits.

That's a fair conclusion. If the mirror of truth views one's worst thoughts/traits as being the "truth" of their character, and Dark Pit is the manifestation is this for Pit, than it's fair to assume that Pit is still loyal to Palutena. In JP, it's made more obvious that Pitto is loyal to Palutena via Burakku Pitto, as he still respects her (calling her 'sama') and wants to save her when she is in danger of the chaos kin and he's panicking.

But it feels wrong to say Dark Pit is only a manifestation of Pit's doubts. As he clearly views himself as independent from Pit.

This is also assuming the the Mirror of Truth has any legitimacy at all.

And as a small endnote, this explanation for the mirror also gives some reasoning to dark pits design other then “he’s another rendition of the emo hero clone stereotype.” The negative energy of the mirror still distorts his form, but since it’s copying an actual intact person and not a highly malleable form like a soul, then the resemblance to pit still remains.

Like stated previously, none of the other monsters that go through the mirror have this change. Fun explanation but probably not one that holds.

--------------------------------

Fascinating Thought, and one that had me thinking for a while. While I enjoy aspects of it, it makes me wonder the legitimacy of the mirror, and also how it's in JP. It's definitely an interesting way to view Dark Pit's character and how it relates to Pit, but I find it a bit limiting for Dark Pit as a person.

If you believe I've made a bad point or should be corrected on something go ahead.

I hope I didn't come off a too rude or anything. Thank you greatly for the ask!

#I thinking a lot more about the mirror now haha #myth analyses things #myth conversations #talonsandtails #also still need to do the other ask you sent me #so sorry for the late reply #this is fun tho #myth asks

[dyrewrites]

Pale Blood -- Intro || One

~ * ~

I want to tell you a story.

It is a complex tale that involves forces more powerful than can be accurately described, stretches further than a single lifetime, and speaks on the fates of many, perhaps even all, and I…well, let’s say I may not be the right one to tell it. But I am the only one who can, and so I am who you’ve got if you wish to hear it. And you will—as those responsible for our lost stars once did—wish.

I’m jumping ahead, forgetting which is the now and which was the then; a side effect of aging, that. You live long enough and you start to lose your grip on the world, and your place in it.

So let’s retract that slip, shall we?

Our tale begins—wait, no, we’ll get to that another time.

Where we begin now is where things turned.

We begin with the first glimmer of change, when hope shined through lifetimes of shadow…glowing from those that could not have known, and who should not have been.

~ * ~

One

The city of Dolor reached, with all its metal fingers, for the bright hot eyes that warmed it. Eyes too weary, too ancient, to worry of the lives that scurried under their gaze. But those lives worried of them and of the grand and terrifying wyrm that bore them.

Or they should have.

On the whole, those desperate to avoid the wyrm’s glare were the ones to take note of its sinewy, slithering sky long enough to be concerned.

And it is one such desperate soul that our tale begins with.

Well...half of such a soul—though fully desperate—as through no fault of his own he was born an abomination. Half bloodsucking fang, half man, and entirely too tired to care which one had decided to make him their doormat on any given evening.

But we jump ahead. Let us roll back a step or two, explain a bit.

Delmas Olren was famous once, beloved even—if the rampant infatuation born of complete separation from reality that his fans possessed could be deemed love. Larger than life he towered over all others, projected in brilliant, flickering holographic clarity for those in the lofty heights of Upper Dolor to witness. And what granted such fame, such fortune, such privileged status in the glittering haven of those towers? A simple sport, if a brutal one.

Holoboxing was what the city named it, projected and streamed for the masses as all fights were, and ‘The Mountain’ was what they named him, for much like a mountain he could not be toppled. But, as it turned out, he could break. Shatter, in fact. And, when he did, all the bloodsucking fangs—that sang his praises right along with their prey while he fought under their banner—pounced to devour the rubble.

Now, how he broke, and when and why, are details best left to drip, to seep and saturate the tale I am here to tell. For the sake of introductions it only matters that he did, and that all those pieces were bitten and clawed and snatched back...misshapen and wrong. Leaving our dear star decidedly dimmer than he desired to be—but as perfectly bright as he needed to.

000

Delmas was outside a bloodbank—Dolor’s only bloodbank—seething in the dim of a smog-black sky with his still-blinking netlink firmly hidden in the pocket of his duster.

 “Halfnight ain’t my shift, Bosch,”He’d sneered into the device a mere hour prior, but his boss didn’t relent. Instead he reminded him of the cab waiting outside and the creds that paid for it—and the clothes on his back, and the apartment he seemed to value so highly just then. So Delmas traded warm blankets and worn sheets for filthy streets and choking smog.

The assignment he had been so ungraciously woken for was to pick up a shipment of high-quality blood, something he didn’t ascribe to, blood was blood—unless it came out of faefolk in which case it was drugs—and run it to a fancy old-world hotel downtown.

A hotel he couldn’t recall the name of—and would regret so later.

All he cared about, standing outside the bloodbank with the cab idling behind him, was the work. Specifically, how it had been more pointless grunt work for the relics that owned him, and would continue to own him long after most of the city ran through another generation of blood to feed them. As, much to the half-fang’s dismay, all fangs whole and not were immortal—more or less. The eldest of them, however, kept their noses above the smog while their bodies languished in the slums, beside Delmas’ opinions of them. Opinions held for good reason—as far as he was considered—as he’d been kissing their asses and doing whatever was asked of him since he fucked up and fell from the grace of Upper Dolor’s majestic towers.

A fall those crusty old relics wouldn’t let him forget.

Jealous fucks the lot of ‘em, he’d remind himself whenever their teeth sunk too deep, or their words cut too wide, can’t stand that I can do what their ancient asses can’t.

And he was right, in a way.

Half-fangs weren’t rare, exactly, but they were weak, feeble, lesser; all weaknesses, no benefits. But not Delmas, for reasons unknown to him—that he wouldn’t believe were he told—he had most of the benefits and few of the weaknesses.

But it was the absence of their greatest weakness that made him as valuable as he was despised.

The smog blocked the light of Som’s twin suns enough to snuff any hopes of true warmth and growth beneath its blanket but its rays still filtered, still speared through to smoke and sear fang flesh as quick and deep as any fire. But it didn’t sear Delmas. A fact that frightened and repulsed those that pulled his strings. It was that fear, that revulsion of his immunity, his otherness to their perceived perfection which fueled their hatred and kept him at their feet.

From dawn, till well into halfnight, their sharp grins and sharper teeth forced him to fetch whatever they asked him to. Blood, primarily; precious and coveted blood offered freely—well, at cost, but such cost was monetary rather than the panicked breaths of quickly draining veins it had once been—from the bloodbank in the slums.

Despite his hatred—bare and gleaming for any fang he dealt with to see—the ‘bloodrunner’ title programmed into Delmas’ ID came with perks. Near-total access to the city, for one; wherever he had business. And with fangs running the show, and their desperate need of him, he had business everywhere. Every grimy set of hungry teeth that drained life from the slum’s shadows knew Delmas’ face, if not his name, as the bringer of their blood—and their salvation when their supplies ran low and the pulsing flesh writhing in the streets began to sing.

Bags of the warm and gooey were bought by the fangs shacking up with synthmeat under the abandoned skyscrapers of Dolor’s many metal bones. They were bartered by the fangs that got small with the faefolk buried in caves and hovels on the chaotic border of the Wylds. Even the dogs scurrying in the sewers for a sip of rage-red wolf blood howled for the easier meal. Fangs old enough to have participated in the city’s construction—and one lording her power over them all as the not-so-secret guiding hand of the city—demanded offerings as well. Which meant, shining and untouchable as they seemed, even the towers weren’t beyond the reach of his ID.

From the center of Dolor’s dreary slums to the shimmering lofts of the privileged elite, Delmas soaked the city red, assuring the safety of those his masters would rather devour than live amongst. And while the glittering golds at the top teased and taunted of a life lost, of freedom from the muck he swam in, he delighted in their sight, their taste—however brief.

He put up with every one of those relics, and their simpering thralls, as they lobbed ‘halfie’ jabs—and literal jabs—whenever he darkened their doors. All for that taste, that sip, that daydream of better.

With the biggest grin his lips could manage he took everything they threw, reminding himself through it all, play the game, climb the ladder and one day all those leeches will be kissin’ my ass.

But no one would be kissing his anything that halfnight, though thanks to the early wakeup and surprise delivery he did have a deep desire to kick his boss’s everything. Mood notwithstanding, when he stopped stewing and stepped through the sliding glass doors, his irritable scowl slipped away.

Stale medical air notwithstanding, the man at the counter was a welcome sight. A man whose deep set of baby blues looked Delmas over as he entered, and cocked a well-sculpted eyebrow.

“Late night for you ain’t it, Del, how’s it hangin’?”

The voice belonged to the hottest pair of lips he’d ever seen—on a dead guy—and Delmas set his bag, and an elbow, on the counter to lock his hazels with those blues.

That face made the trips worth it, its rich browns so well preserved he often forgot he was looking at a ghoul, and the smile he offered was genuine as he answered, “Low and slightly to the left, Ron, how ‘bout you?”

“Always humorin’ me,” Ron said, tossing him a wink, “S’why I like you, well, that and that fine ass. Stuff’s in the back, I’ll box it up for ya.”

As Ron sauntered off to a room behind the counter, Delmas followed the sway he offered, his genuine smile yet shining as his thoughts drifted places best left private. Theirs was an old game but, fun as it had been, it was also an innocent one as neither could make good on the promises their words and eyes made the other—no matter how one of them ached to.

Thick, clear box in hands, Ron returned and set it on the counter with all the care his profession demanded—which was little, and it tapped quite loudly in response. But the box was not near as intriguing as what waited inside, stuffed near to bursting and sloshing about in equally clear bags.

Blood; viscous, white and swirled with glittering gold—which was decidedly the wrong color. It had been markedly pinker the last few months, slipping ever nearer to white over the last few runs, but Ron wasn’t alarmed. He hadn’t noticed. To him it was as rich and red as it had always been.

Delmas noticed.

Problem was he didn’t care.

So those relics’ll get their fix and an extra high, he soothed the prickling of his skin. Prob’ly won’t even notice, fae magic bein’ the horny mess it is—a single fairy flies through town and you’re cleaning magic out of the cracks for eons. 

After a wink of his own, and an exaggerated wriggle of his hips—that would keep Ron in good spirits for the remainder of that halfnight—Delmas ducked back out in the cooling air of pre-dusk. 

To the waiting cab, which hovered about a foot higher than the flickering screens of the street it rode and smelled too strongly of urine, avoiding small-talk with the somber figure behind the wheel. Small-talk he found he’d have preferred to what the cabby broadcast from his netlink.

A moaning ballad over a droning bass, the song’s familiar lyrics bit with memories too raw for time to scar. And again Delmas sneered, again he seethed, and sunk deeper into the musty synth-leathers of the seat as his thoughts spat at the netstar who owned that voice—who once owned him—of course the cabby listens your caterwaulin', who fuckin' doesn’t.

~ * ~

Why was the guy they got to run blood during the day running around so close to night? It’s a good question! Or...it would be, if there was night.

But there wasn’t. Not anymore.

There hadn’t been one for going on thirty years by then.

Not since Vi, the wyrm that held the moons in her skull and the night sky in her belly, crashed down outside the city and the Wylds flourished in her rot.

The light outside those Wyld woods no longer dropped below twilight, where it stayed for a handful of hours—more or less—before her dear brother Som, the sun wyrm, opened his massive eyes and brought morning again.

Welcome to Morne, it’s weird and crazy and we hate it too.

We’re trying to fix it though.

Doesn’t answer the question, does it? I’ll try again.

Night on Morne was known as “halfnight”, since it never reached full dark—and wouldn’t until it could do nothing else. Fangs could go out in halfnight, the suns’ lids were closed after all, they just didn’t block everything and they weren’t terribly consistent about how long they remained that way. So it was unwise to leave the safety of their lairs outside the slim window of what should have been midnight—urging everyone with blood to taste into their homes.

Oh, but I’m rambling again, aren’t I…

It’s time to check in on our other oblivious star.

~ * ~

As with our half-fang, we should take a moment to introduce our half-witch—full witch by blood, as one could be nothing else, but not practicing and thus half.

Odearna Mal Forna, Sister of Daughter Dusk, one of the three Goddesses native to the world of Morne—blessedly confined to the Wylds—was a self-made renegade witch of the slums.

But she had never known fame or fortune.

Or comfort, for that matter.

Sure, she knew the embrace of family and the love one always hopes that entails, but it had been fleeting—as all bliss—and it died, slow and agonizing in a hospital bed. Odea, very alive and very distraught, was taken into the broken family her loss left her and taught the rough embrace of fealty by hot hands, sharp teeth and sharper magic.

An embrace she did not wither in but hardened.

Fierce and patient, she took the possessive hands and hungry tongues of her coven—her Sisters in magic, bound by their Goddess’ blood—for months on end, adhering to the rites of their Goddess and the rituals they entailed. More than blood she tore, screaming with grief and regret, from the victims of her coven’s clients. But through every curse, every hex, every lost soul she bound or broke in the name of a capricious mistress, Odea plotted and prepared.

Then she fled, bruised and bloodied—and eternally scarred—to bury what she scavenged of herself among the slums. Unfortunately...she could not escape her Goddess. Not so long as her blood pulsed with Daughter Dusk’s could she be free of her collar, her leash.

So Odea abandoned her magic, her power, herself—as much as any witch could—and tried her best to hide in a life outside her expertise. The how’s and details of the why’s we will—as her fang counterpart before her—explore in time, slow and dripping as the blood she worked with.

For introductions, one must only be aware that our dear Odea was magical by nature—resilient by design.

000

Witch turned phlebotomist, Odea often found herself outside, during or after her Goddess’ time—after dusk—on streets that blinked and blinded with all the neon its businesses could muster. Those bright lights tempted all with desires to twist toward gyrating holos. Holos that promised the comfort of young, eager synth bodies ripe and ready to bend and break.

Odea huffed at every one, or puffed rather, directly through their collected lights as she had no desires to tempt—flesh, though integral to the magic she so rarely tasted then, held no sway over her...as she cared little for touch.

With the sultry tones of Savor, her favorite netstar, singing from her netlink—glittering among the many other rings and charms decorating her ear—work was what mattered. All else be damned.

But, damned or not, else intruded.

That else turned out to be two thugs looking for a quick buck, or a bite—to be honest, it doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things what they were looking for; they were looking in the wrong place.

They slithered out of an alleyway like a couple of awkward ferrets, bared their oversized teeth and pulled her into deeper shadows, knocking the netlink enough to halt the melodies singing through it—and souring her more than the rough claws on her sweater and moist breath in her face. 

It wasn’t every halfnight she was jumped by a couple of bloodsuckers, but the last time it happened they were after more than her blood, so it was a marked improvement.

These ones wanted her keys and had assumed—foolishly—that it would be an easy matter to get them off her. She was alone, after all, and they figured she was a tiny, defenseless woman they could drag into a dark alley and intimidate. Unfortunately—for them—being one did not require the other. 

Must not be important enough to get delivery, she guessed, suppressing the smile that tickled, the giggle that bubbled. Sharp teeth, no matter how big or hairy the bodies attached to them were, did not worry Odea. The latticework of scars her massive sweater—and layers of shirts beneath—covered marked her all but immune to such worries.

And the sad little knives they waved around weren’t helping any.

“You got a death wish, meat? I said give us the keys,” the bigger fang said through teeth struggling to fit behind lips too thin for his face. 

The smaller one gave what he thought a threatening nod and Odea had a genuine fright…that she wouldn’t be able to keep a straight face for her bit. A bit she began by digging around in her purse.

“I’m certain there’s a seedy little hole in the wall somewhere that’s really missing you two,” she said through an exaggerated giggle before she brandished a small flask and shook it. “You guys drink? Booze, I mean.”

Standing slack-jawed for two heaving breaths, the big one shook his surprise off and caught her by the neck. Mourning the loss of her giggle as she hit the wall, Odea found it again in the sight of the flask held firm in her fingers.

“Fine,” The hairy wall of muscle spat. “You don’t wanna play nice, we can play rough.”

The smaller one licked his teeth and chuckled, “Yeah, we like rough.”

Stretching her neck beneath the oversized hand that held it, Odea feigned fear at the fang it belonged to as he grinned and bared his fangs again.

He didn’t get to use them, however, as he was far too busy screaming. 

Night-blessed water may not have been the most economical choice of weapon, but it was easier to carry around than a bonewood stake—and Odea knew a good deal more of Mother Night’s witches than she did undead whittlers. 

The fang dropped her to scratch at his melting face and the other hissed before he pounced, allowing Odea time for a well-placed foot to his groin—much to the delight of all the underpaid women he planned to spend the remainder of the evening with—and an opening to rush out of the alley. 

And right into another fang. 

“Just my luck,”she told the smooth surface of the sidewalk’s screen as she replaced her dropped flask in her purse and slapped around for her lost glasses, “flat on my ass in the middle of a fang sandwich.”

But the new one didn’t pounce. He didn’t snarl or spit or even threaten, no he knelt beside her and offered the oversized glasses she couldn’t spot. And he didn’t want her neck, or her keys, just her wrist, which he took through the thick corded cloth of her sweater, careful not to touch her skin. 

After helping Odea to her feet, and offering a comforting smile, the new fang settled warm hazel eyes on her nametag and said, “I take it you work the halfnight shift at the leechpit?”

Get in the cab if you want to stay in one piece, he added in a voice that didn’t try to brute force its way into her thoughts; it asked politely, took her mind to dinner and gave it a tasteful kiss on the cheek.

She’d met some of the classier fangs before—as she would refer to him beyond politeness—but he was something else when she looked closer. A bulky mountain of a man with short, mouse-colored hair and a patchy mess of curls where a beard should be, he towered over her in a tattered black duster and clothes so dreary and casual they made her sweater and leggings ensemble look fashionable. Even his fangs weren’t really fangs, protruding only enough from the friendly smile he offered to reveal what he was.

It wasn’t right.

Classy fangs were all pomp and flourish. They put on a show as if they were the show. This one was nice. Nice and friendly and normal and somehow that was worse.

With his voice lingering in her thoughts, caressing her nerves, Odea couldn’t find her own. Instead she found a sense of longing, unknown and unwelcome but she held it all the same; close and tight as the classy fang ushered her into a smoky cab—a cab that’s netlink sang over-sweet with the song she’d lost in her own.

Her composure did not return until he helped her inside, then it burned clear through her cheeks.

“Back to the leechpit, if you don’t mind,” The fang asked the cabby.

While Odea straightened her hair and glasses, distracting herself until the classy fang eyed the window, where she couldn’t see his eyes. It was difficult not to stare when she could, more so than it should have been, as if her eyes were refusing requests to look away. Sure, he was cute—beautiful even, in a familiar and eerie sort of way—but swooning wasn’t like her. She didn’t swoon and certainly not for a man, no matter how cute. 

So what’s got me gawking? She asked herself—the better question would have been ‘why doesn’t he make me anxious?’ but she wasn’t ready to ask it.

And he answered, “Not to sound like a cliché but it’s not you, it’s me. Where anythin’ human is concerned, preferences be damned,” He turned to face her with a single eyebrow cocked, his smile crooked and more than a little sad as he added, “I’m irresistible.”

She knew words, she should be saying words. Say words, Odea. “But I’m no—I mean, that’s fine then? I guess.” But it wasn’t, that doesn’t make sense, no fangs can twist a witch that way, am I…less, because I stopped practicing? His smile twitched but didn’t fall and she swallowed before speaking again, “I—uh, thank you? I’m supposed to say thank you. I’m so sorry. I don’t even know your,” he put a hand up before she could finish. Gross, even his hands are pretty, she said it to herself but he chuckled as if she hadn’t.

“Call me Del, and you’re welcome.” He leaned over her to unlock the door and Odea didn’t breathe till he returned to his own seat, but his whisper stayed with her, “When you get in tell Ron, Del says he’s sorry for keepin’ me.”

The world stopped without her and before she could turn to thank the fang again, he was gone. The cab remained, dinging with the payment of too many creds as its driver gaped at the empty seat.

Their eyes met.

The cabby nodded.

Odea nodded.

After she slipped under the creaky metal door, the cab flew off, leaving her alone in the smog-choked and bruising gloom of halfnight.

Turning her eyes to the sky, Odea asked it, “What did I do to earn the attention of every fang in this Gods-forsaken pit of a city?”

And if Som had been capable, he would have reminded her of what her chosen profession was, but he was not and so he shook and crackled. The cloud cover of his sinewy body crackled with him, bright and blue, before it burst and rain poured through the glittering pink barrier protecting Dolor from its Wyld woods. Beyond the glimmer of the towers above, the rain’s shimmering blues were tainted and spoiled by the smog beneath...where it found Odea.

Gray-hued and smelling faintly of sewage, what soaked through her sweater did not improve the twitch taking over her lips. But it did usher her faster to the screen, slapping her keycard against it, cursing the older tech of the building that it could not read her embedded ID—and know her without the stall of a card and the extra rain it drenched her in.

When the doors slid open she continued through them in a rabid charge, until the counter stopped her, or rather Ron’s welcoming smile did.

She had a message for that smile and, even as the memory of who gave it began to fade, she spoke it in precisely the tone he’d given it, “Del says he’s sorry for keepin’ me.”

“Again,” Ron clicked his tongue and shook his head, “I need to get you some earplugs.” He waved her confused expression off and started walking into the backrooms. “Or a helmet, maybe an attack dog...or a gun,” He added before he disappeared into the maze of storage rooms that extended deep beneath the squat building. 

All Odea caught as his voice faded was ‘fang ass’ and decided it better she missed the rest as she poured back into her body.

Fang? The cab she remembered, and the hairy fangs before it, but there’d been another there that wouldn’t latch. Someone new, Cordial, comfortable, an absolute…asshole! Push me into a cab like that, pull me out of myself, turn me into compliant putty and, the last of Odea’s consciousness snapped into focus and rage slammed against its edges. 

“Again?” She all but screeched, stomping toward the backrooms. “Ron, you better not have been keeping secrets or I will feed your ears to my cats!”

000

The halfnight air, while crisp and delightful on Delmas’ skin, wasn’t what he wanted. What he wanted was to not be running blood for a bunch of half-dead pricks—they were alive, as any other thing that is born and one day will die, they had simply forgotten how to act like it—but he would settle for the solace of the cab.

A solace he lamented as he outran others flying lazily down the street, Might have stank of piss and sex—and sang with memories best left rotting in a pit—but a cab’s better than wasted boots.

Buildings, cars, pedestrians, the violence and misery of the slums—and salacious holos of the slender bronze face and bright cyan eyes that would have broadcast the very song he escaped were he wearing his netlink—passed by in a rainbow blur. Few noticed him, their own halfnights saturated in stresses he could only imagine—with his not having to fear for predators as they did—and those that had the misfortune of catching sight of a billowing coat or a shine of fangs wouldn’t remember.

His was a fleeting presence.

Unlike the errand he’d been sent on. Though the package required of it was. Despite its odd color—a color that nagged, glittering in that pale way it shouldn’t—he carried a meager treat.

No doubt Bosch is suckin’ toes again, lookin’ to get another wing on that manor of his, he considered as he tucked the glorified shoebox tighter under his coat—narrowly avoiding a drunken pedestrian as he sped quicker than the poor woman could feasibly avoid herself. But, fucked color or not, it’s a bite of a thing, should get there and back with enough time for sleep, he regretted the optimism as soon as it faded and a sense of dread rumbled in its place. 

Not too many things could notice him at the speed he ran, let alone keep pace well enough for the growl that clawed at his ears, but the smell that chased it gave his pursuer away. There weren’t too many things that stunk of musty fur and cheap liquor either. Delmas ducked into an alley and waited for the shadow to stretch over his on the cracks and stains along the scrap-metal wall. 

And man, can that shadow ever stretch, he marveled.

When the thing stopped growing it was double his size in every direction, and Delmas slipped his free hand into his coat. He wasn’t much in a fight against what waited, but a storied career of punching faces meant he wasn’t defenseless either, and he felt decidedly less terrified to have one of his knuckle dusters on than off.

“Got somethin’ for me, boy?” the shadow asked, words dripping through teeth too big.

Box held close, and weapon held firm, Delmas turned and bit his lip. The blues of the nearby streetlamps didn’t reach the alley and dawn was still hours off—halfnight’s confused length not-withstanding—but he saw all he needed through the dim. The wolf in men’s clothing cut a certain figure out of the bruised twilight, and what a figure it was. Mountain as they once called him, Delmas had nothing on the shifted mess of black fur and gleaming white teeth that snarled in that blue-licked dark.

Nothin’ that hairy, with a mouth that big, should be allowed a coat that nice, Delmas thought. It was nicer than his and that bothered him more than the wolf’s size or the sour smell that wafted from his stretched snout. Delmas smiled as wide as he could—to keep from grimacing, “Hiya, Nash, didn’t think big bad let you wander off-leash. How’s this halfnight treatin’ ya?”

“Hand em over and I don’t crush your skull,” Nash didn’t need to step forward for the threat to stick, but he did anyway and Delmas had to bite his lip again as the massive wolf shuffled in the too-small space. 

“All business tonight, huh, alright then,” It was his turn to step forward, slipping into the empty space as if he were made for it, doing nothing to hide the grin as Nash backed away. “We all know your bark is worse than your bite. You’re neutered, furball, I’m off limits. This blood’s for the big guy, but not your big guy, so stow the teeth or I make the call and ruin both our tomorrows.”

“Not this time,” Nash growled under the words and Delmas shuddered with the vibration of it. The wolf stood taller, “Boss wants the blood and the boss gets what—”

“‘The boss wants’?” He shook off the growl and tucked the box of blood bags closer, tighter under his arm. “Nuh-uh. Not happenin’. My boss is bigger than your boss, figuratively speakin’ of course, so you’re not gettin’ these bags.” Nash had a nasty smile, more of an extra wide snarl that twisted around and curled up his cheeks. The flash of orange and dilated pupils added a bit to the effect, but Delmas knew better—or at least he was pretty sure he did. The wolves were neutered, there was an agreement. Gotta be a reason for the back alley tooth-off here, he worried, but he said, “Alright, smiley, put em away and we can talk.” Delmas let the knuckle duster loose in his pocket and put his hand up, backed up a bit and waited till Nash tucked those teeth away before continuing, “Fangs get the syrup and wolves pop the dead things at the morgue for their nougat-y center. That’s how it is, how it’s always been. So why’s mama suddenly jonesin’ for the red and gooey?”

“I don’t have to tell you shit, halfie.” Nash was too worked up for conversation—not something one wants from ten feet of muscle and teeth.

Delmas began to run the scenarios but his mouth wasn’t patient enough to wait for wisdom, “You lick your mama with that tongue, mutt?”

Nash growled, deeper and longer than his last and Delmas dropped. Rumbling through his skin, fierce and hungry, he could all but feel the teeth in it before the wolf stopped. And, grasping for the support of a nearby dumpster, Delmas stood—slower than he needed to.

Waiting, lips wide and eyes bright, Nash offered no mirth, “I get the bags or you get dead.”

“Please back away, I am unsafe to touch,” the dumpster chimed, flashing warning symbols along its surface before it clicked its lid locked.

Delmas ignored it, pushing from the greasy metal can as it heated—wiping its black grime on his matching jeans. The chime of the electronic voice rang again, after a sizzle and pop, but he ignored that too and dusted off his coat, taking special care to slap at his coattails—slipping the hand into his pocket after.

Then he looked up into Nash’s monstrous snout with a smile half as hungry, “If I give you the bags, I won’t be the only one gettin’ dead.”

“I ain’t afraid a you,” Nash spit, grinning as the viscous mess hit the spot of Delmas’ coat he’d just cleaned.

Eyes firm, Delmas secured his knuckle duster and nodded, stepping closer. “Maybe you should be,” he warned, dropping and diving between legs too big—yet conveniently wide-set—before twisting around to pop ol’ Nash in the jewels on his way through.

The wolf did not howl, nor did he wail, he squeaked—in a pitch that set dogs three blocks down howling in shared agony—and Delmas’ laugh coughed loud and sharp as he rolled out of the alley and into a sprint.

But his giddiness—as all great joys—was fleeting.

Balls of steel that one, he fretted at the distant rumble, and the growl that chased it. Memories of blood-starved weeks healing broken bones and black eyes kept him at a gasping pace, one that allowed him to dive into a broken dumpster free of garbage but soaked in a stench vile enough to mask his scent.

“—your fucking bones!” Nash’s threat was cut off, but Delmas could work out what had come before it and remained in his hideaway.

Nash lashed out at can after can, scratching at metal walls and even toppling a streetlamp—from the crunch and crackle Delmas could make out—but he didn’t find him. He remained safe and sound until the growls faded, and their residual shivers died away.

Stinking of burnt garbage, Delmas then headed for the drop—making a mental note to strangle his boss. However, Nash wasn’t what urged him quicker as he did. No, what he was after managed that. While wolves coming for blood was a bad sign on its own—a terrible omen one might say—the color of it piled on extra reasons to fret.

000

“Your ears in fucking my cats, Ron!” Odea repeated for the fifth time.

But Ron wasn’t listening. He wasn’t budging. He was hiding in a freezer, because Ron? Ron wasn’t stupid. He knew more about her then she did. 

For instance; when she got angry, things got broke. 

They lost most of the glass in the front of the bank last month because some fang-banger was loitering out front. Scrawny creep walked in like he owned the place, sold a bag of what could only be mer blood—red as any other, it shimmered and rippled like the surface of the sea—then asked after Del, but Odea didn’t know any Del.

Because someone keeps erasing himself, Ron thought—but he was mistaken.

Expletives sung from the creep—in a manner Ron should have found familiar—and his eyes flashed in a cyan brighter than any Ron knew despite the low hood and thick lenses covering them. Then the fang-banger and Odea had it out, full on shouting match right there on the sidewalk for all the slums to hear.

But that’s not what worried.

It was when the sweet little thing, who had been slinging blood by Ron’s side for the better part of a year, screamed—wailed more like—in a way he’d never heard a human scream and all the glass shattered. Got rid of the fang-banger alright—ran him clear across the street to a car too nice to be in the slums—but Odea? He found her standing on the cracks of the glitched-out sidewalk, covered in blood and glass, eyes burning with white fire and mouth hanging three times lower than it had any right to. She fainted when he touched her and woke up hours later…and asked what happened to the windows.

So no, Ron would not come when she called. He was staying put behind the steel door, where it was safe.

“Seriously, Ron, where are you? I’ve had a shitty start this halfnight and I need some answers before I lose my mind.” She was right outside the freezer. If he wanted to—which he decidedly did not—he could peek out the window in the door and see her standing there. “I was kidding about your ears. I won’t feed any part of you to my cats, I would never. I don’t know where you’ve been.” Ron laughed, it was short and more of a squawk but it was enough and Odea’s round face filled the window, fogging up her glasses as she spoke in a warbling singsong, “I see you.”

Her voice slipped too easily through the thick glass. It tickled chill fingers up his arms and burrowed into his ears and Ron wanted to run. But he was in a freezer. There was nowhere to go save under a shelf of blood bags or into one of the empty boxes meant for them. No matter how limber his dead limbs had proven to be, he knew damn well there was no way he’d be able to squeeze into a box that small.

So Ron sighed…and opened the door.

Odea stepped back, rocking onto her heels, and clasped her hands behind her back, gazing up at him with comically widened eyes.

Ron sighed again, “Oh please, honey, don’t strain yourself. Just, go make us some coffee and I’ll meet you in the breakroom.” She squeaked and hopped and, as she fluttered off down the hallway humming to herself, Ron wondered if she knew how many people were in that head of hers, do they have to schedule their time, or is it like a rotating roster?

It took him longer than he expected to navigate the maze of halls that was the bloodbank, and when he finally reached his destination the breakroom greeted him with an unenthusiastic, ‘meh’.

Walls of unwelcoming off-white weren’t its only travesty, as the linoleum’s attempt at fun patterning was anything but. Never mind the chairs, which creaked no matter who sat in them, add in a delightful layer of grime and dust on nearly every surface and you got a pit no one in their right mind would spend time in. It was a bleak room, made ever more by the flickering fluorescent bulbs that lit it.

But there was coffee.

Decent coffee too, something that only happened when Odea made it. Ron could never work out why that was but it gave him an excuse to have her make the coffee every shift they shared together, which was every halfnight shift.

It was just the two of them that worked halfnights and they rarely had anyone but Delmas drop in, which was rare on its own and never happened when Odea was in the building—convenient, that. 

The dayshift was another beast—and when Ron saw his favorite fang most often. That crew managed the buying and collecting of the bulk of their one and only product, and anyone looking to make a quick buck off the life flowing in their veins preferred brighter, living faces taking it. From all over the slums and the shimmering towers above it, and even out into the border of the Wylds the people came. They weren’t always people, in the strictest sense, and the blood not always what one might picture…but the bloodbank bought it. 

Then it sold it to the fangs, always the fangs.

No one else bought blood.

It was provided, of course, to the hospitals when needed but it was rarely needed. No, their deceptively large bloodbank was essentially a giant juicebox for bloodsucking monsters—some might say ‘vampires’, and I’m sure by this point in our tale you’d like them to, but that was an old word in Morne, one that would confuse most and enrage others.

Ron was comfortable with the arrangement—as if he had a choice. Fangs didn’t judge, much, and Delmas never. He was welcome in their spaces, even if his hunger required more to slake. Odea though, her he didn’t understand. No normal, warm and breathing, human would choose to spend every halfnight alone with a flesh-hungry corpse—no matter how charming and adorable he was.

But...after working side-by-side, dealing with her cycling moods, noticing the way some of the machines responded to her presence and catching the disturbing glint in her eyes when she spoke of blood-borne diseases, Ron started to understand.

Odea wasn’t normal, maybe not even human.

It was around then that he caught her taking her own blood, and his suspicions were confirmed. Human blood could drip out of their veins in a red so dark it appeared black, and it could even ooze if the person giving it were dehydrated. What it could not do was shimmer as if spiked with the very light of dusk itself. She was spooked when he walked in on her, but played it off as being startled and embarrassed. Selling her blood suggested money had been tight—and it had—but she ignored the oddity of her blood.

Ron said nothing, out of politeness, but he didn’t ignore it; Odea had witchblood. Even if his eyes weren’t seeing what he thought they were, his nose couldn’t lie.

She stayed with him in the solitude of halfnight—six out of the nine days each week—content beside his appetite, because she knew her flesh wasn’t on the menu. Either that or she didn’t know what he was, but he while he was well preserved he was still clearly not of the living, and they’d been together in that pit for too long for her not to have figured it out.

As for why they were the only halfnight shift, well, Odea asked him once, and once only, why there weren’t any humans working the shift with them. To the discomfort of both of them, all of Ron’s answers ended in ravenous fangs and exorbitant cleanup costs. No, it was humans—and thralls, if they could get enough of them away from their master’s beds—for the day-walkers and ‘others’ for everyone else.

That’s what worked, so that’s what they stuck with.

Who ‘they’ were, Ron had no idea. He had his ‘boss’—the same Delmas answered to—and he’d met a few other fangs before his favorite became the only deliveryman, but they didn’t seem to be in charge. Whoever actually ran the bloodbank was someone too important to sully themselves in the slums. 

And they have lousy taste in furniture, Ron grumped. The chair had begun to dig into his thighs during his introspection and Odea had yet to join him in his misery, but there’s a fresh pot of coffee. He glanced under the table, having found her under there before during one of her fits…nope.

The room was bare beyond the single table, a couple of chairs and the kitchenette—if three feet of counter space and a sink on top of a single cupboard and broken minifridge constituted a kitchenette.

“Where is she?” He asked it anyway.

From somewhere in the labyrinthine bowels of the bloodbank, a shriek answered.

~ * ~

Now that we have met our stars we must speak of our skies—of caution—of warnings. I have spoken of the wyrm, the suns, of Som; he whose steady claws held the misshapen ball of Morne and warmed it with the impossible fires of his belly, shining so brightly through his eyes.

But I spoke briefly of his sister. Her colossal eyes, soft blue-white they glowed so sweet, so gentle, while her sinewy sky glowered in dark and glittering blues and purples with the flash and twinkle of her own light peeking through like stars. They wrestled, fought, bit and tore to be the one that cradled Morne, gazed upon it—adored it. Calling forth night and day they ripped it from the other to sail the black seas of space, through vibrant nebulas in bursts of howling laughter—spilling fresh life in their wake. But, as the bigger of them, Som would have it last, always he would win. Until Vi, bleeding and broken—desperate—as her brother tore Morne again from her claws beseeched the emptiness beyond them both;

I wish to be more than my brother.

It grew in answer, that emptiness, and she along with It. Growing and growing until Som’s light sputtered in her own. Pride forced her claws after, stealing scales and flesh and blood and bright, reveling in her power, her success. Unaware of the ways of wishes, that took as much as they gave—more—so much more. Soon Vi shriveled in Its hunger and her sky, her night, rained down upon Morne until only Som remained; dimmer—desperate—and alone.

~ * ~

#writeblr #novel #writing #pale blood #urban fantasy #full chapter #i accidentally deleted the other one when getting rid of the rough draft ones #so #here it is again #with extras

[gogogoats]

Dragonblade Chapter One - A Deep Dive

20 years after the Jane and the Dragon TV series worked its way into our hearts, the novel we have been waiting for, Dragonblade, has been delivered.

The views expressed in this synopsis/analysis/review/whatever it is are entirely my own, and as a long-standing Gunther fan who sometimes struggles with change, they are neither perfect nor unbiased. I will do my best however to be fair. 

Where we left off in the TV series:

Jane: 12 years old, intelligent, hard-working, concerned for her friends’ wellbeing and open to their opinions, confident but prone to occasional self-doubt, stubborn and determined enough to see her way through a challenge. Easily provoked but with enough good sense to see reason in the end.

Gunther: 14 years old, self-absorbed and aware that he isn’t popular with his contemporaries. His moral compass has been stunted by his upbringing but is present nonetheless and the main source of the internal conflict between his need for his father’s love and his desire to be a good knight. At the end of the TV series he has begun to find creative ways to undermine his father’s schemes, and develop a tentative friendship with the castle staff, but is not yet established as a reliably good character.

Jester: 14 years old, creative, sensitive, loyal to his friends, uncharitable to those he dislikes, devoted to Jane but level-headed and patient and willing to call her out on her own bad behaviour. A voice of reason and wisdom in most situations.

Pepper: 12 years old, emotionally astute but naïve, prone to believing what she hopes is true and not letting the facts get in the way. Maternal, protective and caring, and very supportive of Jane.

Rake: 13 years old, shy, awkward, kind-hearted, nervous and jumpy. Smitten with Pepper but ineloquent. Slowly edging towards a romantic relationship with her.

Smithy: 14 years old, steady, reliable, quiet but not unsociable, firm, practical, strong and kind. A good and loyal friend, even tempered but not without his limits.

Where we pick up in the novel:

Chapter One: Breakfast with Friends

We have jumped ahead five years, although the characters’ ages have only advanced four years. Jane is 16 now (and somehow so is Gunther?) and she is sitting at the dining table in the garden with Rake, Jester, Smithy (18) and Pepper while Dragon sleeps on the castle wall. Jane is now a knight, which was her life-long goal and the main focus of the TV series.

She is in a snappy mood but it’s very early morning so perhaps that explains it. The conversation centers around her large appetite, and when Smithy makes an idle observation, two things happen. The first is that everyone reacts as though him speaking is highly unusual, and the second is that, somehow, the entire group of individuals all wonder to themselves if he was flirting with Jane. There is no reason given for why they all think this. He is slapped by Jane and kicked by Jester for what was a (truly!) innocuous remark, and it’s no wonder he seldom speaks, if this is the penalty. If Smithy was flirting then why not Rake, who began the conversation?

Gunther arrives with news, to a frosty reception. He is no longer welcome at the friends’ shared table, and Jane silently dwells on old slights which were already addressed five years ago. Jester engages him in conversation with a barbed comment, and Gunther prods back. Rake misunderstands their banter and Pepper, seemingly out of nowhere, takes the opportunity to praise his sexual prowess. It’s an uncomfortable moment for both the gardener and myself. Gunther handles the situation by telling Pepper to “Spare [Rake], indeed spare us all.” Thank you, Gunther.

Gunther’s news is that someone called “Haroldus” is enroute to the castle. We the reader do not know who this is, but the castle staff are clearly well acquainted with him, and most are pleased to hear of his coming. Smithy is concerned for his pig. Jester is especially a fan, calling him a source of “intelligent conversation” and a “master orator”.

Dragon is also unaware of who Haroldus is, despite him visiting only two years ago. This is explained away by Dragon apparently sulking in his cave for the duration. The word “orator” is thrown out again, this time by Jane, although apparently said orator wasn’t worth mentioning once he left so Dragon has never heard of him.

The scene ends with a Dragon-sized fart joke.

We flash back to Jane explaining to an unimpressed Sir Theodore how her sword was broken by Dragon (while he used it as a toothpick) in a semi-amusing scenario. Theodore mentions the financial toll Dragon takes on the castle and Jane is dismissed with an order to bathe before inflicting her presence on others.

End chapter.

Overall impressions:

As readers we have been dropped into a pre-existing world with little preamble. I thought I knew these characters well and expected reading this novel to feel like pulling a favourite blanket around me on a cold afternoon, familiar and comforting. Instead it seems that enough has changed with the passage of time that I don’t quite know them anymore, or that they don’t know yet how to be themselves, and the sensation is more like misjudging a step. Not a disaster, but unsettling just the same. Jane is crude and snappy, Theodore is less good-humoured, and all of her friends seem to have lost a degree of the kindness and sweetness I have always associated with them. Perhaps there is a reason for this, which will be revealed in future chapters. The narrative also seems to be finding its feet, swinging between sex jokes and fart jokes as though unsure what its audience wants.

There are mistakes littered throughout, such as Jane’s “main” of red hair, which add to my discomfort while reading. I am aware that these errors continue through upcoming chapters and will try to limit my comments on them unless they are truly erroneous. No promises though!

Changes to canon: Gunther’s age, Pig’s gender (he may be a new pig)

Time passed: no more than an hour

#jane and the dragon #JATD #dragonblade #dragonblade spoilers #book review #dragonblade deep dive

[yyumemika]

A Premature Burial Episode 9

A Premature Burial 

Episode 9

Season: Winter

Characters: Mika, Shu

(Lunchtime the next day, the Chinese restaurant nearby ES building)

Mika: *Chewing loudly*

Shu: Non! The way you eat is disgusting as ever, were you raised by animals?

Well, I suppose eating and sleeping properly is what lets one grow big and strong. You were in poor health last year because everything you did was suited to me.

Mika: Nnah~ But Oshisan.

Shu: Talk after you’ve swallowed.

Mika: Nnah~ … *chew chew* *gulp* 

Umm… What were ya sayin’ again?

Oh yeah. Ya said ya were gonna leave me in charge of the food while we’re back home, but was this Chinese restaurant really okay?

Oshisan is always livin’ abroad so don’t ya miss Japanese food?

Shu: You might generally think that.

I was a western-minded child, even when I lived at home I had a dislike of Japanese food, and got scolded for eating croissants in secret. 

Mika: Nnah~ I guess it’s true when ya say it like that. Ain’t that why ya always kept a furnace at home. 

Ahaha. This time I really feel like I’m gettin’ to know Oshian better, I’m real happy.  

Shu: What does that mean… Now’s not the time for this carefree idle chatter. 

My family are trying to respond seriously to my grandfather’s unreasonable behaviour. That troublesome old man gets angry if we cut corners.

Of course, none of my other family members are artists.

I’m a nonconformist, a freak. My grandfather is similarly so, and I was called his second coming.

Therefore, it seems my family members will likely hire renowned artists and funeral service professionals.

Mika: Usually, it’s best t’ rely on professional funeral directors fer a funeral.

Shu: Yes. If we want to defeat such a formidable enemy and win this “funeral contest”, we need to come up with a new idea.

Even if it's done the usual way, they’re not likely to win. Although we are artists who are regarded highly in society, we’re amateurs when it comes to funeral services.

Mika: Nnah~ I agree with ya, but what’re we really gonna do?

Ya said we’re schemin’ but… Ain’t it no good to have a funeral that eccentric?

Shu: Hmph. It’s because these old fashioned narratives have started to break down that we have fine art today.

Of course, I, too, have no plan to behave in such an indecent manner.

Properly mourning my beloved grandfather is my top priority, and the results of this “funeral contest” can be said to be secondary or even tertiary.

Mika: Yeah.

Shu: In that respect— We have an advantage over my other relatives, as I have a stronger bond with my grandfather than anyone else.

I know the deceased the best, therefore I believe we can capture his most desired funeral.

Mika: But, yer grandad ain’t “deceased” yet… Well, I get what ya wanna say.

This ain’t really the same as our usual performances aimed at the general public, it’s different from weavin’ up stuff specifically fer fans—

It’s more like something made-ta-order fer a specific person, fer yer grandad.  

Honestly, it makes sense to adapt it to the person’s preferences an’ stuff.

Shu: Fufu. I’m glad we can have a decent conversation like this. Back then, all you would do was listen to my endless explanations, confused and not understanding a word of it.

It was as if I was a mother bird feeding her chick.

But, now that you have grown like this, we can fly alongside one another.

The truth is, I’m happy… You’ve gotten big, Kagehira.

Mika: W-What’s goin’ on, yer talkin’ like an old man, Oshisan. 

Rafaello: “—I apologise for the inconvenience. I don’t mean to trouble you.”

“Do you mind if I barge in on this conversation too?”

Mika: Nnah? Where’s that strange voice comin’ from? Ain’t that the voice of that suspicious guy Rafaello who says he’s yer grandad’s illegitimate child?  

Shu: I don’t mind if you want to join, but shall we move to another place?

The grease from the food will splash here.

Because of that, I have your doll packed up neatly into my bag. 

Rafaello: “I think that’s a good idea.”

”I want to express my regret that even things that were originally daily necessities are kept in the back of museums and treated as nothing more than works of art.”

“Dolls are meant to be cherished. I cannot help but say that getting dirt or scratches on them is inexcusable.”

Shu: There are people who love dirt and scratches, isn’t that right, Kagehira?

Mika: Uh, uh, why’re ya shakin’ me?

Rafaello: “Fufu. You will have to travel quite some distance. My— No, your villa’s storage room should do.”

“I have something I must tell you two there.”

Shu: We have to return to that building again? It takes quite some time to get to.

Rafaello: “Of course, I’ll wait. No, I’ve always been waiting.”

“I don’t think of it as anything other than a little more useless waiting time.”

#raison d'etre #ensemble stars #enstars #shu itsuki #mika kagehira #english translation

[halchron]

Negative Character Traits. Below is a list of 102 negative traits to describe your character. Bold the ones that fit. Tagged by: @yeonban ( ty <3 ) Tagging: whoever wants to do it !

Aggressive - pursuing one’s aims and interests forcefully, sometimes unduly so Aloof - not friendly or forthcoming; cool and distant Arrogant - having or revealing an exaggerated sense of one’s own importance or abilities

Belligerent - hostile and aggressive Big-headed - conceited or arrogant Bitchy - malicious or unpleasant Boastful - showing excessive pride and self-satisfaction in one’s achievements, possessions, or abilities Bone-idle - lazy Boring - not interesting; tedious Bossy - fond of giving people orders; domineering

Callous - showing or having an insensitive and cruel disregard for others Cantankerous - bad-tempered, argumentative, and uncooperative Careless - not giving sufficient attention or thought to avoiding harm or errors Changeable - irregular; inconstant Clinging - overly dependent on someone emotionally Compulsive - resulting from or relating to an irresistible urge, especially one that is against one’s conscious wishes Conservative - a person who is averse to change and holds to traditional values and attitudes, typically in relation to politics Cowardly - lacking courage Crass - lacking sensitivity, refinement, or intelligence Cruel - willfully causing pain or suffering to others, or feeling no concern about it Cunning - having or showing skill in achieving one’s ends by deceit or evasion Cynical - believing that people are motivated by self-interest; distrustful of human sincerity or integrity

Deceitful - guilty of or involving deceit; deceiving or misleading others Detached - separate or disconnected Dishonest - behaving or prone to behave in an untrustworthy or fraudulent way. Dogmatic - inclined to lay down principles as incontrovertibly true Domineering - assert one’s will over another in an arrogant way

Fastidious - very attentive to and concerned about accuracy and detail Finicky - fussy about one’s needs or requirements Foolish - lacking good sense or judgment; unwise Foolhardy - recklessly bold or rash Fussy - fastidious about one’s needs or requirements; hard to please

Greedy - having or showing an intense and selfish desire for something, especially wealth or power Grumpy - bad-tempered and irritable Gullible - easily persuaded to believe something; credulous

Harsh - cruel or severe

Impatient - having or showing a tendency to be quickly irritated or provoked Impolite - not having or showing good manners; rude Impulsive - acting or done without forethought Inconsiderate - thoughtlessly causing hurt or inconvenience to others Inconsistent - not compatible or in keeping with Indecisive - not having or showing the ability to make decisions quickly and effectively Indiscreet - having, showing, or proceeding from too great a readiness to reveal things that should remain secret or private Inflexible - unwilling to change or compromise Interfering - tending to interfere in other people’s affairs Intolerant - not tolerant of views, beliefs, or behavior that differ from one’s own Irresponsible - not showing a proper sense of responsibility

Jealous - feeling or showing envy of someone or their achievements and advantages

Lazy - unwilling to work or use energy

Machiavellian - cunning, scheming, and unscrupulous, especially in politics Materialistic - excessively concerned with material possessions; money-oriented Mean - one who makes no effort to understand or empathize with others Miserly - of or characteristic of a miser Moody - given to unpredictable changes of mood, especially sudden bouts of gloominess or sullenness

Narrow-minded - not willing to listen to or tolerate other people’s views; prejudiced Nasty - behaving in an unpleasant or spiteful way Naughty - disobedient; badly behaved Nervous - easily agitated or alarmed; tending to be anxious; highly strung

Obsessive - a person who is affected by an obsession Obstinate - stubbornly refusing to change one’s opinion or chosen course of action, despite attempts to persuade one to do so Overcritical - inclined to find fault too readily Overemotional - having feelings that are too easily excited and displayed

Parsimonious - unwilling to spend money or use resources; stingy or frugal Patronizing - apparently kind or helpful but betraying a feeling of superiority; condescending Perverse - showing a deliberate and obstinate desire to behave in a way that is unreasonable or unacceptable, often in spite of the consequences Pessimistic - tending to see the worst aspect of things or believe that the worst will happen Pompous - affectedly and irritatingly grand, solemn, or self-important Possessive - demanding someone’s total attention and love Pusillanimous - showing a lack of courage or determination; timid

Quarrelsome - given to or characterized by quarreling Quick-tempered - easily made angry

Resentful - feeling or expressing bitterness or indignation at having been treated unfairly Rude - offensively impolite or ill-mannered Ruthless - having or showing no pity or compassion for others

Sarcastic - marked by or given to using irony in order to mock or convey contempt Secretive - inclined to conceal feelings and intentions or not to disclose information Selfish - lacking consideration for others; concerned chiefly with one’s own personal profit or pleasure Self-centered - preoccupied with oneself and one’s affairs Self-indulgent - characterized by doing or tending to do exactly what one wants, especially when this involves pleasure or idleness Silly - having or showing a lack of common sense or judgment; absurd and foolish Sly - having or showing a cunning and deceitful nature Sneaky - furtive; sly Stingy - unwilling to give or spend; ungenerous Stubborn - having or showing dogged determination not to change one’s attitude or position on something, especially in spite of good arguments or reasons to do so Stupid - having or showing a great lack of intelligence or common sense Superficial - not having or showing any depth of character or understanding

Tacky - showing poor taste and quality Tactless - having or showing a lack of adroitness and sensitivity in dealing with others or with difficult issues Timid - showing a lack of courage or confidence; easily frightened Touchy - oversensitive and irritable Thoughtless - not showing consideration for the needs of other people Truculent - eager or quick to argue or fight; aggressively defiant

Unkind - inconsiderate and harsh to others Unpredictable - behaving in a way that is not easily predicted Unreliable - not able to be relied upon Untidy - not inclined to keep one’s possessions or appearance neat and in order Untrustworthy - not able to be relied on as honest or truthful

Vague - thinking or communicating in an unfocused or imprecise way Vain - having or showing an excessively high opinion of one’s appearance, abilities, or worth Vengeful - seeking to harm someone in return for a perceived injury Vulgar - lacking sophistication or good taste; unrefined

Weak-willed - lacking the ability to resist influence or to restrain one’s own impulses; irresolute

#✧ ━ dash games. #oooh this was fun ty chris <3 #aldous vc I will cause problems on purpose

[birdybirdnerd]

for the 30 specific aus ask meme,, #30 tsp? :]

hi :)

EDIT: now on ao3!

30. hey bud. I didn't mean to reveal that I can read minds but I gotta know what in the actual hell is going on in your head, do you live like this? always??

The Narrator had long since grown used to filtering out the chatter of humanity that assaulted him daily. For as long as he could remember, he was partial to the thoughts of those around him; their innermost monologues, deepest desires all brought to the surface in his presence and his for perusal.

It was like a radio, constantly fluctuating between stations, only giving him glimpses and snatches of dialogue before it popped and fizzed to another channel. The more people around, the more wildly it flipped stations and the more chaotic it got and the bigger headache it gave him.

He had fine-tuned the art of filtering it out for the most part, into an idle white noise that barely bothered him. Proximity played a role in how strongly he was partial to an individual's thoughts; the closer they were to him physically, the louder their thoughts. It was why he spent his days avoiding others as much as possible, why he drifted through life lonely and distant from humanity.

But even then, it was impossible to completely avoid human contact, living in the busy 21st century world. Cities grew more and more squished, habitats grew crowded, and people were forced into smaller and smaller places just to exist. Bumping into others and being blasted with whatever song was stuck in their head or whose breakup or impending eviction was on their mind was inevitable.

Which was why, when the Narrator was sitting on the train into work one morning, crammed as far back in the corner of the seat as possible and desperately hoping against hope that the people who got on at this stop would take his anti-social glower as the hint that it was and continue onto the next car, he was unsurprised when the unassuming man in the beige button-up quietly sat down next to him to stare out the window for the rest of the transit.

He was surprised, though, when - as the train shuddered and began to move and the sudden jolt sent the stranger swaying back until their shoulders collided - there was nothing.

Nothing.

The white noise background static of thoughts and feelings that constantly assaulted the Narrator faded to silence. Pure, blissful silence.

The man righted himself, shot an apologetic glance to the Narrator, and turned forward again.

The noise returned. I wonder what I should cook for dinner tonight/God, if Brenda asks about the quarterly report again I'm gonna-/Do you think anyone notices how wrinkled this shirt it I should probably do laundry/Oh god oh god I'm gonna be late-

The Narrator reached out without thinking and grabbed the man's shoulder. Everything fell away into silence again.

The man stared at him. Raised an eyebrow.

From out of the silence came a single, soft, questioning thought: I wonder if he's alright?

"I-I," the Narrator stammered, suddenly unsure. He let go of the man's shoulder, self-conscious, and the other passengers' thoughts slammed back into him with a force that took his breath away. He grabbed at the man's shoulder almost desperately, apologetic as he began to blabber out things he never thought he'd admit to anyone.

"It's just, er, I didn't want to say anything as this is highly strange and I apologise for how horribly rude this must come off, but your mind is so blissfully blank that I- oh god, now it sounds like I'm calling you a brainless idiot, when it's clearly not that, it's just- I am constantly assaulted by the thoughts of everyone around me but for some reason your head is just completely empty? And I promise that isn't an insult, in face it's the most wonderful thing I've ever experienced, the quiet inside your mind is so complete it blocks out everything else and I am so sorry-"

The man reached up and clasped the Narrator's hand, where it had started to squeeze his shoulder to an almost-probably-painful degree. He smiled reassuringly.

You said you can hear my thoughts?

The Narrator nodded emphatically. "Yes- yes, I can hear everyone's thoughts, even subconscious thoughts and desires they don't even fully realize themselves, and I can hear your thoughts when you verbalize them like that but when you're not it's just so- so quiet, so nice, and-"

Okay. The man squeezed his hand again. I don't mind being a set of earmuffs for you. It's alright.

The Narrator sagged with relief, then immediately jumped back up when he realized he did so into the other man's shoulder. "I- I'm sorry, this is completely improper of me, I don't- I don't even know your name."

The man smiled. Stanley.

"Stanley..." The name rolled off his tongue like it belonged there, and he returned the hesitant smile. "Lovely to meet you. You can call me the Narrator."

#personal #my writing #the stanley parable #this was fun :) didnt know where to end it and there is No backstory for why the fuck Either of them are like this #but there doesnt have to be :) thanks!!!!!! #might post this on ao3 idk

[shiningdesignersreflections]

Chapter 4: Black Tide Rising

Narrated by no one.

Narrator: Flo took one last longing gaze at the crumbling altar and murmured his final prayer to the ancient god.

Flo: Great Arionus, I will follow you to the ends of the world, 'til the forests die and the oceans dry up...

Narrator: With every word that fell from his lips, Flo's misty form dissipated bit by bit into specks of deep blue floating lights, like warm, passionate teardrops.

Narrator: The swaying sparks gathered around Mercury's hand, bleeding bit by bit into the azure gem.

Flo: Great Arionus, heed my prayers...

Narrator: Flo's last words faded away into the mist. The wisp that only remained for so long due to obsession finally accepted its demise.

Narrator: Elves, after all, were destined to come back to nature. Flo's dedication brought him prolonged pain, but he never stopped seeking his god even to the very end.

Narrator: What he never realized, though, was that the person who brought him the ray of hope was never a believer of the God of Water to begin with.

Narrator: Mercury's New Moon gem began to gleam, more brightly than ever before. A wild force surged in it as the ancient powers were finally ready to be awakened.

Mercury: The time has come to prepare.

Narrator: As the light dimmed, calm returned to the space. The last tear fell to the ground, trampled beneath uncaring feet on the way out.

Narrator: Mercury Group has always been highly efficient. Viper and his men fished the stele out of Lake Bovaly quickly, and Alan soon translated it.

Narrator: Hymns singing the praises of Arionus, the God of Water, were etched upon the stele, and contained many more clues toward awakening the god.

Narrator: The songs and poems of old are often nothing more than idle grasps at romance, but a sharp eye can divine the truth within them.

Narrator: The explorations of Lake Bovaly opened a viable path for Mercury, and the gates of the abyss shall likewise open for him with Arionus' awakening.

Narrator: Mercury heads to the open sea, to tell the Elves of Water that he has found where Arionus is sealed.

Narrator: Mercury vowed to the leader of the Water Elves to wake up Arionus, to break the blood oath between the Elves of Water and Light with the aid of the gods...

Narrator: ...and to lead them in a conquest to retake the continent.

Water Elf Leader: The friend of my people shall bring back our great ancestor, and reclaim our long-lost glory.

Narrator: The tribe, desperate for anything that would further their vengeance, has no reason to turn down his aid...

Narrator: ...and thus Mercury receives the scepter, passed down through the generations, from the leader.

Narrator: At the same time, Alan gives Ophelia the ancient Pigeon codex, which records Glory originates from flame.

Ophelia: The road ahead may be littered with thorns and traps, but I will forge ahead regardless and recover Pigeon's glory at the road's end.

Narrator: The puppet queen who will do anything to restore her kingdom's glory will not give up this opportunity...

Narrator: ...and will soon venture into the Mist Forest alone, in search of the altar of the Fire Elf.

Narrator: Everything is proceeding according to plan. All he has to do now is wait.

Narrator: The altar deep in the Mist Forest quickly lights up with blue and red flames.

Narrator: The Pigeon coast is beset by tidal waves as the Elves of Water await the return of their ancestor.

Narrator: The tides may be enough to rouse those slumbering nobles from their idle fancies, if only for a moment.

Narrator: Yet Pigeon's glory shall not be destroyed in this disaster.

Narrator: The Elves of Water are too proud, too strong. They've been broken down by too much despair, and are all too willing to place their trust in others.

Narrator: Sequestered away in the deep sea for centuries, they have precious little knowledge of the state of the world.

Narrator: The stronger their desire for revenge, the further they stray from their goals.

Narrator: Everything is prepared. Arionus, the God of Water, shall open the connection between Pigeon Forest and the Ocean of Memories.

Narrator: It lies there, in the heart of the forest, where the elven prince is already headed.

Narrator: As he's said from the beginning, this is all but an experiment to peer into the Abyss.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

#mercury #shining nikki #chapter 4 #black tide rising #tides and flames #anniversary #lake bovaly #arionus #elf #god #water elf #power #abyss #promise #transcript #ssr designer

[mercurygray]

What is the idea you can't wait to work on? Why haven't you started it yet? GET STARTED!!!

Okay, this isn't really a 'can't wait to work on it' idea, and more that there's a part of my brain going "But you already have 2 OCs for this fandom at home, and you can't have any more until you work on THEM."

But. You asked. So.

Usually my characters start with a canon character (in this case Aegon) and a desired ending, which is usually a romance of some sort, and usually I can sit down and put those two things together and something will happen, but this one is…elusive.

You and I were talking the other day about middle tier nobility and how we don't seem to see a lot of them in Westeros except as throw-away names in background scenes and as members of the Kingsguard. And it occurred to me it would be highly satisfying for Aegon (because he's…Aegon) to be chasing the Cargylls' sister. (The teasing possibilities are endless!) Crownlands families all do something in service to the king, and she's well placed to see her brothers often.

Aegon has lower-hanging fruit to pick where sex is concerned - she's not important enough to be totally absent from his attention, but noticeable enough to know that the tricks he plays with the chamber maids won't quite work on her. She has a position - mistress of the robes, responsible for all of the textiles in Helaena's part of the royal household (something something dirty jokes about needles and slits). And she has a family, obviously, but she still doesn't have a name, and perhaps more importantly, in my head she doesn't quite have a…a way of being, yet, unless it's this slightly…uncomfortable notion that she pities Helaena, and she allows Aegon in because she wants to …protect the princess? And she also pities Aegon, because she knows what a caring father looks like, and because she sees more than most do of a bored, poorly used man who uses alcohol and fast living to dull what could be a first-class mind.

But no name yet. I feel she needs a name.

Lately my groupchat, aka my chief co-conspirators, have been talking a lot about starting manageable projects, and right now, everything House of the Dragon just feels like it's got to be huge, and what I've written up there would take a LOT of time to develop in a way that makes sense. Right now I just want to get to the gooey center romance bit and that's no good.

And then even if I did work on it no one would read it, which is a different problem, but one I would need to work around. I'm not excited about this idea enough for it to be self-sustaining.

So right now I'm not working on that, because I just don't have time. It's just on idle in the back of my brain.

#wip wednesday #asked and answered #emilykaldwen #meet my originals

[sapphic-story]

Tried out Oh Write's word sprints (described here) with an irl friend for a couple hours and it was so fun highly recommended and also if anyone wants to do some together some time I'd be down

She was writing for a fic she was previously working on and I just wrote a non-canon (but like, could be canon? Off screen canon?) one-shot for Slips of the Stars with a prompt that she came up with. We both wrote 1k+ woohoo

the unfinished oneshot under the cut (with some fake names for some currently unintroduced, unnamed characters lolll)

Slips asked for a simple gathering for her birthday. Well, asked may be a strong word for what really seemed to occur, which was Hero verbally strong-arming her into celebrating, rather than her previously desired arrangement to do nothing. Narratively, she was apparently forced to do this. Call it a special episode.

Anyways, the two roommates invited some people the two mutually knew to their little apartment, now only marginally cleaner and more put together than it typically is in preparation for their arrivals. Hero (with Slips’ insistent help) put up some Dollar Tree decorations along with whatever decoration-y items they could find around the apartment—paper clips strung together, paper plates with doodles on them, bandaids stuck to the wall to form the letters “KAASEY” in the kitchen. Slips noted that a few of Hero’s…fabric creations somehow snuck into the fray as well, imperfect loops and spirals in misshapen masks proudly expressing their mediocrity over the television stand. She supposed that she’d let Hero win this battle, just this once.

As to not rack up money on their already meager combined funds as the epitome of “broke college student”, the two called for a potluck arrangement, asking guests to bring some type of dish rather than a gift. (though Slips wouldn’t necessarily say she was opposed to receiving gifts.) To this, there were varying responses. All positive just…puzzling, perhaps. Deetee seemed thrilled by the prospect, telling Hero to leave dessert to her. H said he’d “pull something together” once he figured out some strange noise his apartment roommate was making, which seemed like a can of worms on its own. K was told he didn’t really need to bring anything, especially since his sister was coming, but he very excitedly claimed he was making “something that’ll blow their socks off” anyways. Xeno just gave a thumbs up with no indication of what she was going to bring. Only Alcamus seemed to give a normal response, claiming that she was going to be busy that day but would drop by with some pizza if she wasn’t swept by her shift or studying.

There was still perhaps half an hour until the designated start time for the small celebration. Slips, despite being the figure of celebration, did make sure to bring her own contribution and already had it laid out on their small table. Plastic utensils, napkins, and paper plates. She managed to find some plates that were cow themed, which was, of course, an instant grab for her. Were they meant for kids? Perhaps, but it added to the comedic element of the story, which is a necessary for breaking the ice and tension in a scene. Obviously, it’s how the narrative would want it to be.

She sat there in front of the table now, idle on their couch, waiting for the festivities to start. She picked at a loose thread on the armchair of the couch, the frayed, green-gray edges exposing the age that brought it to the thrift store prior to their home. The hum and gurgle of electronic cooking equipment, as well as the strong scent of food engulfing the kitchen created a sensory hodgepodge that made Slips already start bemoaning the inevitable headache that was going to arrive with the guests and all of their loud, distinctive energies.

“Slips!” Her eyes leisurely crawled over to the attention of the kitchen, where Hero was poking her head out, beckoning Slips with a cheap mitted hand. “Come over and try this to see if you like it.”

She hoisted herself out of the sofa with a sigh, joining her roommate. The room seemed even more claustrophobic than normal with the messy scatter of cans, pots, pans, and other materials assorted among their countertops. They seemed to take up every bit of room and then some more, stealing away whatever other spare area Slips didn’t even know they were capable of stealing.

Hero seemed unbothered by the mess and the tight spacing as she grinned at Slips, pride beaming through her toothy smile as she led her over to the electric stove, a tall dark pot making itself known against their plain white walls. Hero opened the lid with the mitted hand and peered in, letting free the scent of some mixtures that Slips couldn’t quite identify, but was still tantalizing enough to get her thinking about the last time she ate today. Or yesterday. Whenever she made that microwavable mac and cheese “meal”. Hero, seemingly satisfied with what she saw, set the lid down atop some discarded cardboard packaging and stepped aside, beckoning Slips forward.

Slips leaned over the pot and immediately hissed as the heat hit her face, her lenses filled with steam. Behind her, she could hear a quiet chuckle, which she threw a backwards glare at (with a childish tongue out) then turned back to the pot to smush her palm against her face, pushing her glasses atop her head, and peer in.

It was a stew, though it was hard to tell what type because of the weak overhead lighting in the kitchen revealing little about the broth’s color. She spotted some stringy pieces of chicken, aromatically identifying them as chicken, floating alongside some chopped and diced vegetables. She couldn’t help feeling a bit of surprise, followed by fondness, for how much effort Hero seemed to put into making the meal just for celebrating her birthday. It was certainly miles beyond the amount of effort Slips typically put into any meal she made for herself.

“Sancocho.” Hero supplied from behind. Slips turned back towards her voice. She still looked pleased with herself, but it was now softened with a fondness in the corners of her mouth. “It’s like the perfect everything food. At least, in my home it is. This isn’t as fresh, since I had to used canned ingredients, but I think it works good enough for now.” She stepped forward to the pot, bumping a toned arm to Slips’ smaller arm with the tight spacing, produced a ladle from somewhere beyond the pot where Slips couldn’t see, and dipped it in the pot, producing a steaming, overflowing sampling.

“Here, try some.”

Slips looked at the soup with something akin to repulsion. “Like…all of it?”

“What else?”

She inspected the ladle again, then gingerly took a more appealing part from the scoop, a piece of chicken, and popped it in her mouth.

“That’s pretty good. Well seasoned.” She mused, then looked towards Hero, who seemed to be giving her a narrow eyed look of bafflement. Or disdain.

“You know, the soup part of the soup is part of the experience.” She stated.

“I don’t. Like. Non-solid-y things.”

Hero huffed. “Of course not.” The burning feeling of guilt sliding through Slips chest suddenly felt way worse than the imagined discomfort in consuming broth. Slips grabbed the ladle from Hero’s hand to bring to her lips, but stopped short with a shout from Hero and a hand over Slips’ mouth.

“WAIT, it’s still hot.” Hero said.

“Oh.” Slips said, dumbly.

“Did you burn yourself?”

“I didn’t actually get to try it.”

“You don’t have to eat something you don’t want, you know. It’s fine.” Hero said.

“Can I just…get, like, the stuff in it? Like the chicken and veggie and stuff?”

Hero let out another little huff, but this one seemed to be humored, with a smile pulling at her lips. “Yeah, sure. Picky.”

#my writing #ohwrite #sots #writeblr #sots tag